


Four Little Bottles

by Edhla



Series: After the Fall [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 18:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 47,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edhla/pseuds/Edhla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The police are certain that Adelaide Bartlett poisoned her husband with four little bottles of chloroform. The only challenge for Sherlock is to prove how it was done. When he is rushed to hospital in a serious condition, John's responsibilities are sorely stretched between his best friend and his young family...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Adelaide

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fourth sequel to "After the Fall" and the next one along from "The Somerton Man". If you want in on the ground floor of this series, Fall is the one to start from. :) This, like "The Parson's Son" and "The Somerton Man", is based on a real-life case. In this instance, it's a poisoning case from 1886. From the Wikipedia Article: "A fatal quantity of chloroform was found in Mr Bartlett's stomach, despite having not caused any damage to his throat or windpipe, and no evidence of how it got there. Adelaide Bartlett was tried for her husband's murder and was acquitted. By the jury's own statement in court Mrs Bartlett's acquittal was partly secured because the prosecution could not prove how Mrs Bartlett could have committed the crime."

"What do you make of her, Mel?" Lestrade asked in a low voice They were standing in the fluorescent-lit viewing room at the station, looking through the one-way glass at the dark-haired young woman slumped down in the interview chair on the other side.

"I think she's barking mad," was Melissa's response. Lestrade blinked.

"That's your professional diagnosis, is it?" he asked stiffly.

"Oh, please. Her initial statement was absolutely mental."

Lestrade glanced through the glass again. The young woman's face was buried in her folded arms; Pam Greer was beside her, muttering something to her with one hand resting on her shoulder.

Pam Greer wasn't a lawyer to be trifled with, and Lestrade knew it. Very decent woman, and a solicitor that he respected - and he didn't respect all of them. Good fun to have a drink with when she wasn't working. Had a dark sense of humour. Thought some of her clients were as dumb as Lestrade did, and more than happy to admit it off the clock. But absolutely nothing got past her in an interview.

"Well, she _was_ three sheets to the wind at the time," he commented. What a bloody nightmare _that_ was. He hated reading any member of his team the riot act, but Murtagh and Patel had deserved it. Who in their right mind, he'd reamed the pair of them in his office an hour ago, would take a statement from a woman who was so obviously drunk? Did the expression _inadmissible_ mean a thing to either of them? Perhaps the words _suspended until further notice_ would get their attention better.

"You'd have to be on acid to come up with something like that," Melissa retorted. "She was holding onto his _toe_ while he slept?"

He shrugged. "Apparently, it helped him sleep. Wouldn't that make _him_ the barking mad one?"

"Don't know, because he's the dead one." Melissa sighed. Through the glass, they saw Sally Donovan enter the interview room and put her case notes on the table. She spoke to the young woman; Pam was the one who responded. The younger woman was as still as death.

"Anyway," she continued, "I think she's okay to be interviewed, but I'm not a psychiatrist, Greg. Tread lightly. And I want to be present for this." She squeezed his hand for a second.

* * *

"Lestrade. Good to see you again." Pam shook hands with him across the desk; the woman beside her did not even lift her head.

"Pity about the circumstances," he said in a low voice. He sat down and waited for everyone to get settled in before proceeding with the usual. "For the benefit of the tape, interview commenced 4:42pm, August 24th. Present are myself, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade; Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan; the suspect, Mrs. Adelaide Bartlett; her legal counsel, Ms. Pamela Greer; and forensic psychologist Dr. Melissa Brennan. As Ms. Greer has expressed concerns about Mrs. Bartlett's mental state, Dr. Brennan will be sitting in with us today, to ensure that Mrs. Bartlett gets any further assistance she might need." He looked down at the woman who still had her face buried in her arms. Then he cleared his throat.

"Adelaide...?" he ventured, leaning forward and gently touching her elbow before Melissa could tell him not to. The wretched woman looked up with startling swiftness; the look in her dark, wild eyes was almost frightening.

She said nothing.

"Is it okay if I call you Adelaide?" Lestrade persisted quietly. He supposed it would be unforgiveable to drive the name "Mrs. Bartlett" home when he was trying to work out if she'd just made herself a widow.

"Addie," she murmured. "I'm called Addie."

A husky, breathless sort of voice; heavy accent that Lestrade already knew was French. He smiled briefly at her; a well-cultivated, sympathetic smile. "Addie. You can call me Greg if you want to. We just need to talk to you about what happened to your husband. Do you want a cup of tea? Coffee?"

She shook her head.

"Okay. Could you please tell us in your own words what happened last night?"

" _Non_ ," she suddenly burst out with. _"Inspecteur, vous faites erreur, je suis innocente ! Jamais je n'aurais fait de mal à mon mari ! L'empoisonner, comme ça... Mais je l'aimais ! Oh, pourquoi personne ne veut me croire... Vous me croyez, vous, Inspecteur, n'est-ce pas?-"_

"Addie," Lestrade said uncomfortably, fumbling around for French he hadn't learned or used in thirty-five years. " _Je ne comprends pas le francais. Comprenez-tu..."_ he winced. " _Comprenez-vous anglais?"_ He couldn't see why she wouldn't understand basic English. She'd been in the country ten years, and seemed to understand when he'd asked if she'd wanted coffee.

She took a deep breath, then nodded.

"For the benefit of the recording, Mrs. Bartlett has just nodded her head," Donovan said. Lestrade usually forgot about the recording. "Mrs. Bartlett, please tell us what happened last night. In English."

Lestrade glanced across at her, and then at Melissa. As per usual, Donovan was playing Bad Cop. Adelaide Bartlett passed her hand across her eyes, and Lestrade groaned inwardly. The last thing he wanted was to be stuck interviewing a sobbing woman. Mel was going to be on at him for days about making a fragile suspect cry. But Adelaide remained dry-eyed.

"Edwin said he had a headache," she said, stiffly but with a fair degree of fluency. "He has been complaining of headaches a lot recently. He went to bed at seven o'clock."

"And what did you do?"

"I was on the internet until nine-thirty."

"Doing what?"

She shrugged. "Facebook. Emails. I have friends in France I like to talk to..."

"Okay." Officers at the scene had already confiscated Adelaide's laptop and were going through her browser history, so Lestrade knew there was no point in grilling the woman on what she was doing that night. Technology was a more reliable source of data than human memory. "And you were on the computer the whole two-and-a-half hours?"

"No. At a quarter to nine, Edwin called to me and asked me for something for his headache. I gave him two aspirin. He went back to bed. I went back to the laptop. At half-past nine I got off because he came back down again and told me the aspirin hadn't worked. He could become- cross when that happened."

"So he was ill often?" Donovan broke in. Lestrade mentally gave her a tick of approval. A man who was poisoned being sick often in the past? Big problem there.

"No," Adelaide struggled a little. "Well, yes that he said often that he was ill. But he wasn't. He was... I don't know how to say it in English. Someone who believes himself ill when he is not."

Before Lestrade could earn Pam Greer's lecture over baiting the suspect with the word _hypochondriac,_ he was interrupted by his phone ringing. He glanced at the Caller ID in confusion for a few seconds before he remembered: a particularly obnoxious call from Mycroft Holmes two weeks before had resulted in him petulantly changing his name in his phonebook to _Lord and Ruler of the Known Universe._

"Excuse me," he said, taking his shrieking phone out of the interview room and to the viewing station, where he watched Mel and Sally chatting it up in his absence. "Mycroft," he said, opening the call. "How can I help you?"

"You have a murder suspect in your hands," Mycroft informed him serenely.

"Yes."

"A Mrs. Adelaide Bartlett. Twenty-eight years old."

"That's her. Her husband Edwin was poisoned with chloroform last night. Oral dose - a huge one. Fun times we're having here. What's your involvement in this business, exactly?"

Mycroft paused. "Things are about to become even more 'fun', as you call them, Inspector. Her father is Louis Jean Marie de La Trémoïlle."

"… Shit. The French ambassador to the UK?"

"And not a man to be trifled with. We need to proceed with utmost caution in this case."

Lestrade literally dug his heels into the floor, processing this for a few seconds. "I'm not letting a woman who probably murdered her husband go just 'cause of who her father is," he said.

"Probably?"

"She confessed."

"So I can see from the case notes in front of me. But she was intoxicated at the time, was she not?"

"Just a bit. Not admissable, and I don't need your help dealing with the boneheads who took the statement down, thanks. We're trying to get a non-pissed confession out of her right now."

"International relations are bigger and more important than the death of one man, Lestrade."

Lestrade paused, trying to keep a hold of his exasperation. Getting arsey with Mycroft Holmes wasn't going to make a bad day any better. "Okay," he said finally. "What do you want me to do with her?"

"Return her to a holding cell without persisting with your enquiries, for now. I'll be in touch again in an hour or so once I've spoken with the appropriate people and we've decided on a course of action."

"You know I can't hold her for long," Lestrade protested.

"Then release her. You can always arrest her again later if you have to."

"Oh, yeah. 'Cause that's going to look good."

"Never mind about what it looks like. We'll take care of that side of things." Mycroft paused for a few seconds. "Have you called my brother about this?"

"Not yet."

Another pause.

"Are you giving me orders not to?" Lestrade ventured.

"I would much prefer it if Sherlock was kept out of all matters political," Mycroft responded. "He tends to cause havoc with government affairs."

"Yeah, I did hear about that." Lestrade glanced through the glass to where Pam was still comforting her client. _Well, she'll be pleased about this turn of events for Mrs. Bartlett, anyway._ "Are you giving me an _order_ to not let Sherlock in on this?"

"An order? No."

"Right. I'm going to return her to her cell for now. Mel thinks we'd be best off posting a suicide watch, just in case." Lestrade wasn't prepared to take any chances with his suspects anymore. "You do a bit of digging from your end, let me know as soon as possible what you want me to do with her."

"And Sherlock?"

"I'm thinking about it. I've got to go."

"Lestrade -"

Lestrade got a great deal of childish glee out of hanging up on Mycroft Holmes. Going to his phone book again, he scrolled down for Sherlock's number. Hopefully he was in a good enough mood to pick up the phone this time. Things were too urgent for a text.


	2. Smile for Mummy

"Come on, Charlie-bear, _please_ smile for Mummy…"

John looked up from his pile of books. There was only a month to go before the big return to work, and he was out of both theory and practice, so he had to study up for it. The upstairs office was now the bedroom of a certain fair-haired young lady, so the dining-room table had to suffice for one. Molly was curled up on the floor near the sofa. Charlie was lying on a purple fairy-print playrug beside, mostly looking at her hands and kicking her little feet up. Molly had been trying for the past fifteen minutes to get her baby to smile at her. The best she could get was a studious, contemplative stare.

"Charlie, isn't seven weeks a little young for me to have to tell you to mind your mother?" John commented good-naturedly. "Not sure grounding's much of a threat at your age."

"What if there's something wrong with her, John?" Molly asked plaintively. "All the other babies at Mother's Group are smiling already. I mean literally _every_ _single_ _one_. And they were all born the same week she was…"

He sighed and put down his book properly. "Lolly," he reminded her patiently, "we had her to Dr. Milne only three days ago, and she said it was fine, remember? Babies do things at different ages. Maybe she just doesn't feel like smiling."

A sudden memory flashed through John's mind- of reading his father's diary in that close, cluttered bedroom in Essex the day before Charlie's birth. It was true that he'd read words of compassion and love and repression and deep grief in those diaries. He had also read things like: _October 4_ _th_ _, 1973: Harriet took her first steps today. John didn't. I can't say I'm surprised._

And that was _before_ the Falklands. No PTSD excuse for that.

"Besides," he continued, going over and getting down on the floor beside her. "I don't care what the other babies at Mother's Group are like. Charlie's got better parents than they do." He kissed Molly's cheek, then snaked an arm around her waist. "Well, a better mother, anyway…"

"Not sure about that," Molly smiled wearily. "Every time they talk about what they're doing with their babies, and it's different to what we're doing, I feel like I'm wrong."

"And you know what? I bet they think they're the ones who are doing it wrong. Besides, Charlie's the testing-stage of this parenthood thing, so we can't be expected to get everything right. We did say _five_ kids, right?"

Molly shot him as filthy a look as she was capable of giving anyone. John smiled and kissed her again.

"You look tired," he commented. "Go on up, I'll keep an eye on her."

She hesitated, glancing over at her serious-faced little daughter. "Well… aren't you meant to be studying…?"

"I can multitask." John scrambled to his feet and picked a textbook up off the table. "I'm only revising, not getting my degree. We can read together... well, okay, maybe we won't be reading _that_." He pushed aside a copy of the _Color Atlas of Sexual Assault_ and picked up the next book. "Let's read _Wound Closure Biomaterials and Devices,_ Charlie _._ That's nice and age-appropriate."

Molly gave in, smiling and heading upstairs for a long soak in the bath. As John sat down cross-legged on the floor beside his daughter, she broke into a gummy, dimpled grin at him.

"Don't you _dare_ let your mother see that you can already do that," John muttered, tweaking one of her cheeks with his finger. "You know, you could smile at _her_ for a change… right. Page seventeen. Now pay attention, because you're going to be a genius and have a degree by the time you're twelve, so this is all practice…"

John had read through to page twenty-six, and the bath had stopped running upstairs, when the landline started to ring. He got up a little stiffly and went over to where it lay on the kitchen counter to answer it. "Hello?"

"Hi. Is this a terrible time for it?"

Lestrade.

"Nope." John rubbed his eyes lightly. The smiling, happy little creature on the floor had been decidedly less chilled-out at half-past one that morning. And then again at ten past three. And then five past five… "Please tell me it's a case. And one that doesn't involve me memorising every muscle in the human body."

"Yes and no."

"Yes and _no?"_

"Some working knowledge of poison'd come in handy. The wife letting you out yet?"

John glanced down at Charlie, who was now fascinated by her own fingers. "She's off duty for the moment. You can come around, if you want."

"Sherlock's with me. He's going to love it."

"He'll cope."

* * *

Lestrade and Sherlock arrived at the house half an hour later and found John still on the floor amid his pile of books. Molly, being forewarned, had gone to the bedroom to watch TV. Even given that John had called over for them to just let themselves in, there was always something about the way Sherlock did so that always got on his nerves.

"Sherlock," he said pleasantly, looking up at him. "Did you find the diamond?"

"Of _course_ I found the diamond," was the contemptuous response. He was referring to the famed jewel of the Duchess of Morcar; a large and rare blue stone with the hideous name of the Blue Carbuncle. "The problem with smuggling diamonds inside of geese is that geese are often hard to tell apart."

"… Geese?"

"You heard me perfectly. What are you doing?"

"I'm taking a shower," John responded, with just the mildest hint of acid in his voice. He glanced at Lestrade for a second. "Yep, I was waiting for that…"

Sherlock had gone back into the kitchen while John had been speaking; they just then heard the pantry door open. He had, John knew, been hard at work on the diamond case for the last six days. John hoped he'd eaten in that time, but was a little afraid to ask. Sherlock returned to the room a few seconds later, holding a packaged loaf of bread and picking dry slices out of it as if he were starving - which, John reflected, he probably was.

"You know you may as well be eating glue," he remarked. "Besides, we need that for breakfast tomorrow. But there's a shepherd's pie in the fridge you can have if you want. Might be a bit more nutritious."

Sherlock did a u-turn back to the kitchen; John could hear the fridge door open and close. Five seconds later he'd returned. John sighed. "You could heat it up, too," he suggested.

"What for?"

"Tends to be more pleasant to eat that way… also, just so you know, modern man has this wonderful invention. It's called a _plate_."

"No time for that," Sherlock commented with his mouth full, taking another bite before he'd swallowed the first.

"Hey, easy." John frowned. "If you scoff that down it'll just come right back up again. So what's happened?"

Sherlock may have been a prolific talker, but even he couldn't work his way through the mouthful of pie he had for a few seconds. "Murder," he was finally able to get out. "French ambassador's daughter poisoned her husband. Do you know much about chloroform poisoning, John?"

"Not as much as I think you want me to know," John conceded. "And if everyone knows she poisoned her husband, why all this?" He glanced at Lestrade again.

"Ah, now you're asking the right questions. Autopsy held just after midday showed a large quantity of chloroform in the dead man's stomach, but there were no chemical burns in his mouth or esophagus. And no fumes in his lungs…" Sherlock coughed a little over his mouthful of pie. John, once convinced that he wasn't choking, thought for a second.

"I probably shouldn't admit this," he said, "especially not in front of a senior police officer, but chloroform is one of those things medical students like to pinch from the supply closet and muck about with after-hours. It's pretty corrosive. If you tried to force it down someone's throat they'd have chemical burns on their mouth and fumes in their lungs, like you said. I don't think you could mask the taste in any other kind of food or drink, either."

"Nothing else in his stomach, except the remains of two tablets of aspirin," Lestrade supplied.

John nodded. "Well, aspirin wouldn't have made the chloroform any worse. It's not a toxic combination. If you tipped a small bottle of chloroform straight down the hatch, it's possible you could avoid the chemical burns… could it have been a suicide?"

"That's what Mrs. Bartlett was trying to peddle to me earlier today," Lestrade put in. "She has no other defence- she and Edwin were alone when it happened."

"But you're not buying that."

"No, not considering that she confessed to the crime."

John blinked. "She confessed? Seriously?"

"When the first responders showed up they found she'd got into the liquor cabinet," Lestrade groaned. "They tried to take a statement anyway, which is when she confessed."

"So you can't use it."

"No, we can't. She was obviously not in a fit state - crying and laughing and playing music at full blast, and apparently she tried to kiss Halloran. Anyway, there's no other evidence to suggest that Edwin Bartlett was suicidal, and the initial police report, such as it was -" Lestrade had never regretted a delayed arrival at a crime scene more- "suggests he was found lying on his back quite peacefully."

"And the chloroform? Where did that come from? Not the kind of thing you'd find lying around everyone's household."

"Four little bottles of it were found on the premises, and the dose was large enough that it would probably have to have come out of all four. We're still investigating how and when they were bought."

"Were there fingerprints on the bottles?"

"Both Addie and her husband's were on all four," Sherlock responded tersely. "If she's provided any reason for hers to be there, I've not been - oh, for God's sake, put it _down,_ Lestrade!"

Lestrade had stooped down to pick Charlie up off the floor.

"It's rude not to say hello to people, Sherlock," Lestrade pointed out, settling Charlie in his arms and gently prising her sticky fingers off his collar. "So," he said to her. "How's life going for you these days, kid?"

"Smiling for everyone except Molly," John admitted. "Try not to tell her. She's feeling a bit fragile about it. I mean, it's not like she's old enough to be doing it on purpose."

"I don't think Hayley smiled until she was about five," Lestrade remarked. "Grumpy little bugger she could be sometimes. So, anyway..." he said in louder tones, deferring to Sherlock's scowl, "Adelaide Bartlett was released at seven this evening. I had no real reason to hold her without making an arrest, and if I arrest her, I need to have a damn good theory as to how she did it. Which is where you two come in."

John looked at Sherlock in surprise. "You mean you haven't interviewed her yet?"

Sherlock sighed. "Mycroft," he explained. "Apparently, Adelaide's father will make a fuss if we go around to the house interviewing her late at night."

Sherlock wasn't always prepared to defer to Mycroft's wishes on every case. But since the failure of the Bond Air plan, and the botched hit on Sebastian Moran, he'd had to concede that sometimes it was better to do so.

"Proceed with caution," Lestrade reminded him. "Your brother didn't even like the idea of _me_ interrogating her." He paused. "Mind you," he conceded, "the impression I got was that she's a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Mel thinks she might be mentally ill in some way, but we can't find that she's ever been diagnosed."

"I'm not a mental health expert," John pointed out.

"No, but you'll do. We'll go first thing tomorrow," Sherlock said ungraciously. "Do try not to bring Charlotte with you."

As yet, Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes were the only people who had never once referred to Charlotte Watson as _Charlie._


	3. Hurt and Comfort

_"Allons-nous mener cette activité en Français, M. Holmes ?"_

"No." Mycroft handed the older man a small tumbler of brandy. He had poured none for himself. It had been a long day already, and the last thing he needed was to become indiscreet or have a hangover to deal with the next day.

Louis Jean Marie de La Trémoïlle had no such concerns, apparently. He looked tense but alert in the armchair opposite. Very rarely did Mycroft invite persons of importance to Linwood to discuss matters; business was usually conducted in his office, not his home. He'd reflected, though, that a bit of hospitality might be just the thing to smooth over the awkward situation of the hysterical French murder suspect and her very unimpressed parent. But this did not mean he was going to kow-tow to La Trémoïlle's every whim, and that included the language they were speaking to one another.

"No," he said again. "I think we can conduct our business in English, considering that we're currently standing on English territory."

The French ambassador shrugged. "As you wish," he conceded. Curiously, if Lestrade or any of his team were present during this, they would have noted that his accent was less prominent than his daughter's. He was a plump, grandfatherly figure- though Mycroft knew he was only fifty-seven- with square frameless glasses perched on his ruddy, snub nose. He twiddled his thumbs idly and Mycroft, glancing down at them, could see that the nails had been savagely chewed recently.

La Trémoïlle may have looked a little like Santa Claus, but a saint he was not.

"What can you tell me about my daughter?" he asked, a faint note of anxiety in his voice.

"Probably nothing that you don't already know." Mycroft offered the man a cigar, holding in a beleaguered sigh. His head was aching again. He'd have to see if Stephen could rustle up some more aspirin- his headaches were becoming too frequent for comfort these days. "She's at liberty, though her passport has been confiscated and her movements are being monitored-"

_"C'est scandaleux!"_

"We tend to use expressions such as 'outrageous' in this country," Mycroft said evenly, knowing how much the man was irritated by the correction. "And no, it isn't. Your daughter confessed to a serious crime, one that might put her in an English prison for the rest of her life. Not even your considerable dignity and influence can change that, monsieur."

On seeing the expression on the dignified monsieur's face, Mycroft pursed his lips to avoid a smirk.

"But you surely cannot count her confession as anything other than the ravings of a drunk and distressed widow," La Trémoïlle protested.

"She was intoxicated through her own decisions, and the homicide squad involved in this case are fully aware that they're unable to count her confession legally," Mycroft continued evenly. "Hence the need for a full investigation into what happened at the house and why your daughter would have made such a startling confession if it wasn't true." He looked at La Trémoïlle keenly, trying to gauge his reaction.

_No. He has no idea what happened between Adelaide and Edwin last night. Pity._

"That's why we're sending Mr. Sherlock Holmes to speak with Mrs. Bartlett tomorrow morning," he announced briskly, in tones that heavily implied that the man opposite him had absolutely no say in the matter and he was not interested in hearing any objections. "And yes, if you're wondering, there is a family connection. He's my brother."

"Your brother? Not the-" La Trémoïlle's pug nose wrinkled slightly in disgust- "not the amateur detective?"

"The same," Mycroft said stiffly. As much as he enjoyed telling Sherlock he was an 'amateur detective', he did not appreciate it when strangers used this as an insult. "And while he has unusual methods, he's the greatest freelance detective in Great Britain, and perhaps in the world. He has hundreds of successful cases to his name. You may recall that your great country has been indebted to him on many occasions. Most recently, he recovered the stolen Picasso painting, _Le pigeon aux petit pois,*_ which the French authorities had given up for lost."

"Ah," the ambassador murmured. "Yes. I had forgotten that."

"Most people do." Most people forgot the good that Sherlock Holmes did in this world, Mycroft had often lamented to himself. "He gets results."

"Then I look forward to him declaring my child to be innocent of this crime."

"That remains to be seen."

The ambassador nursed his cigar and brandy in silence for a few minutes, refusing to rise to the bait. Finally he stood up, a little stiffly. "My apologies for seeing you so late, M. Holmes. I must go and see to Adelaide now. I suppose I can be present for her interview with M. Sherlock tomorrow?"

Mycroft frowned slightly. "That," he said with slight hesitation, "may not be beneficial to her case. However, I believe that's a question for my brother, as I don't intend to be there. Goodnight, monsieur."

"Goodnight."

* * *

Mycroft spent a minute or two in silent contemplation when the ambassador had let himself out of the house. He had sat down at his desk, and was just then debating the merits of going to bed versus lighting up a cigarette and doing some more work, when he heard the study door open gently behind him. There was a pause; soft footfalls on the floor. Then warm pressure on his shoulder and a hesitant voice.

"What's happened?"

"Oh, nothing." Mycroft let out the sigh he'd been holding in all day and patted the hand on his shoulder without turning around. "Nothing _yet_. But this could be serious, Stephen. Or it could be quite insignificant. And much of it depends, I'm afraid to say, on my wretched little brother and the way he behaves tomorrow."

"You think La Trémoïlle's influence with the French government might cause cool international relations."

"Yes."

"But surely that will be only his own feelings? I can hardly imagine the French declaring war on us just because La Trémoïlle's daughter poisoned her English husband." Stephen had relaxed his accent and dropped his intonation a little.

"No." Mycroft sighed and tipped his head back slightly. "Nor can I. La Trémoïlle certainly seems to think he has that power; whether he does remains to be seen. But where Sherlock is involved... he has a history of muddying these waters."

"Surely he's aware of the ramifications of his actions?"

"He is. I don't know if he cares. He does as he pleases, and never a mind for how it might affect the bigger picture." Mycroft rubbed his eyes. "And don't suggest I 'talk to him', if you'd like to save my sanity. I've been 'talking' to him about this for thirty years. I'm convinced that the more we talk, the more determined he is to do the opposite of what I ask, just to spite me."

Stephen was silent for a few moments. "Perhaps," he ventured, "it might be worth asking John Watson to-"

"No. He's got more on his mind just now than seeing that my brother behaves himself. Besides, Dr. Watson and I have never got along, and since the incident with James Moriarty..." he trailed off vaguely for a moment. "Well. He'd be more likely to aid and abet Sherlock so they could _both_ spite me."

Mycroft had never really explained to Stephen Hassell why he and John had never 'got along.' There were many things the man still didn't know about him- or so Mycroft hoped. He felt Stephen's hand slide from his shoulder to the back of his neck. "It's getting late, Mycroft," he remarked.

"No. Not tonight. I'm busy," Mycroft grunted in response.

"I didn't mean that. But you do need to sleep, you know. It's been a long day."

"I'm busy," he repeated stubbornly, rubbing his tired eyes. "But I won't be up all night. Just give me another hour."

"In that case, I'll get you a cup of tea."

Before Mycroft could protest that he didn't want a cup of tea, Stephen had gone out to the kitchen for it. And in the seconds that followed, Mycroft realised he hadn't had a cup of tea all day and one would be exceptionally welcome just then.

_God, Stephen, how did I ever do this before... before you?_

* * *

By the time the cab pulled up at the flat at half-past ten, Sherlock had decided that eating something that evening had been a terrible mistake on his part. Cold nausea had been rising since he'd given the address to the driver.

This was new. Nausea was not a usual part of the world of Sherlock Holmes, and the unfamiliar sensation was alarming, to say the least. As the cab turned that last corner, a little faster than necessary, Sherlock swallowed down desperately and his fingers twitched for his phone.

Well, John might be able to give some phone advice...

No. John's phone advice was sure to be an exasperated sigh and: _Oh, for God's sake, I told you so. Take a glass of water and a bucket to bed with you and call me first thing tomorrow. You'll live._

Once the cab was at a halt he barely had time to shove a fifty-pound note at the driver, stagger out of the kerbside door, and heave violently. Vomit splattered onto the pavement at his feet, barely missing his shoes.

"Hey," he heard vaguely over his shoulder. The cab driver had got out and shut his door behind him. "'Scuse me, 'you okay?"

"I'm fine..." Sherlock managed to get out before he heaved again. This time he heard the driver swear.

"'You sure…? 'Cause I could.."

Sherlock fished into his pocket for a tissue, wiping his mouth. He was shaking badly, and knew there was only a limited time that his legs were going to hold him up for before giving out altogether. "I'm fine. I've… got a virus, or something."

"Well if I come down with it too, I know where you live," was the cheerful response. "You look like shit. Make sure you sleep it off, mate."

Sherlock felt two notes and a handful of coins pressed into his free hand, and he closed his fingers around the cash with a kind of involuntary spasm and swallowed again. "Yes," he said with effort. "I will."

The cab remained on the kerb while he fumbled with the front door key and let himself into the building. Mrs Hudson's flat was silent and dark; she was at her sister's for the weekend and, Sherlock remembered gratefully, she'd taken Smudge with her. The last thing he felt like doing was seeing about the bloody cat.

He made his way up the stairs and into 221B; by the time he'd changed into his pyjamas and was brushing his teeth he reflected that he was starting to feel better already. The nausea was manageable, and the shakes were passing.

_Still odd, though._

Intellectually, Sherlock grasped that he should take advantage of the lull in nausea and have something to eat again, though he'd noted a complete lack of appetite that was totally at odds with how he'd felt two hours before. All the same, perhaps some toast, or... he mentally went through his own pantry. None of the options were particularly appetising, but John was right in this- his body needed fuel to continue. The Bartlett case would probably be taking all of his attention and energy for the next... well, who knew how long? Hopefully, only a day or two. The Blue Carbuncle case had been exhausting, to say the least. The last thing he wanted was another week-long case with far too much legwork and far too little brain-fodder.

He reluctantly made some toast and tea. The tea he drank gratefully; the toast he nibbled at listlessly as he pored through an article on chloroform on his phone. Difficult to read from, but he couldn't be bothered turning on the laptop.

_Chloroform has been widely used as an anaesthetic but it has now been abandoned due to its toxicity. Prolonged administration as an anaesthetic may lead to profound toxaemia and damage to the liver, heart and kidneys. Inhalation of concentrated chloroform vapour causes irritation of exposed mucous surfaces. Narcosis is ordinarily preceded by a stage of excitation which is followed by loss of reflexes, sensation and consciousness... **_

The letters had already started to swim under his gaze, making a hopeless jumble of the paragraph he was looking at. Besides, he reflected tiredly, it was never a good idea to read up on poison when one was feeling ill. Every symptom seemed to apply, however ludicrous the idea of John or Molly trying to poison him was when it was examined logically.

Being sick was, unfortunately, not always subject to the laws of logic.

His plans to read up on chloroform were just going to have to wait. Leaving the empty cup and plate of cold toast on the living room table, he went down the shadowy hall to his bedroom and crawled into bed instead, shivering miserably under the duvet in the darkness.

* * *

_**Author's Notes** _

* This real painting by Pablo Picasso was stolen from _Musée d'Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris_ in May of 2010. Sadly, although the culprit was caught, he claimed to have thrown the painting out in a panic and it has never yet been recovered.

** [www.inchem.org/documents/pims/chemical/pim121.htm](http://www.inchem.org/documents/pims/chemical/pim121.htm)


	4. Desperate Measures

"Molly, if you want to take her to the hospital, we'll go," John said calmly over the din. "But I've checked her over and I can't find a thing wrong with her. She's not feverish or vomiting, and she's far too young to be teething..."

It was almost half-past two, and Molly had been walking the floor with her daughter for over half an hour while little Charlie alternated between low-level keening and full-pitched screams of rage. John had taken a turn, with no better results. Molly looked across at him miserably but said nothing, as if knowing it would be futile to fight to be heard over the noise. He crossed the floor to put his arm around her.

"Got a better idea," he said in her ear. "We put her in her crib, turn the lights down, and shut the door. See if she'll settle on her own. Maybe she just doesn't like being touched while she's falling asleep." _Which would explain why we go through this performance every single night._

"Brooke Cade says the 'cry it out' method is abuse..."

He frowned. The word _abuse_ was definitely not one he took kindly to being levelled at his family. "Who's Brooke Cade?"

"She runs our Mother's Group."

He held in a sigh. What was supposed to be a _support_ group was arguably making Molly more and more unconfident in her parenting abilities, though he knew it would do more harm than good to outright say so. "And is she a child psychologist or a paediatrician?"

"... No."

"Then it's none of her business what we do with Charlie. We'll give her ten minutes. If she's still acting like we've cut her throat, we can go back to this..."

John had rarely felt so helpless before becoming a father, and helplessness was easily his least-favourite emotion. Of the people he knew, very few of them also had children and very few could weigh in from real experience. The closest person he could go to for realistic parenting advice was Chrissy Stamford, and he couldn't call her at half-past two in the morning for anything short of a real life-threatening emergency. He took Charlie gently out of Molly's arms and went over to the nursery door, flicking the light on with his elbow before going in.

"You're trying my patience, kid," he said in low tones as he moved 'Freddie'- Molly's paisley-eared mouse - out of the cradle and put his daughter in it. "If I didn't love you so bloody much, I'd seriously be considering wishing for the goblins to come and take you away right now." He chuckled a little at the idea, which made way for furtive giggling. It had been a very long day. If you didn't laugh, you'd cry.

He patted Charlie gently for a few moments while she waved her arms and legs and hiccupped. For a second, he could have sworn she was trying to kick his hand away.

He took a deep breath, then went back to the doorway and turned off the light, shutting the door all but a slight crack and going back to where Molly was sitting miserably on the bed.

"She's still screaming."

"I can hear," he said calmly. "She'll run out of steam eventually. She's been up for a few hours, so she's probably overtired as it is. Come on." He lay down and gestured for her to do the same, running his fingertips over her back gently. "Ten minutes. If she's still crying in ten minutes..."

She nodded.

They lay in the darkness, listening to Charlie gradually running low on energy; it was the seven minute-forty second mark, or thereabouts, when there was finally silence from behind the nursery door. John softly started to remark on the fact when he realised that Molly had fallen asleep.

He drew the duvet over her and hoped as hard as possible that Charlie would give her mother at least an hour more of real sleep before her next demand to be fed.

* * *

"Sherlock...?"

Sherlock surfaced reluctantly out of sleep and opened his eyes. It was daylight in the room and John, fully dressed for the day, was standing in the doorway. He blinked and rolled over.

"What?" he slurred, throwing the duvet over his face.

John pulled it back again. "Adelaide Bartlett," he reminded him. "We were supposed to see her today, remember? And if _I_ managed to get out of bed and get dressed before midday, I'm sure you can, too."

Sherlock suddenly remembered - yes, the Bartlett case. He sat up, wincing a little.

_What's that?_

'That' wasn't the nausea and shakes of the night before; it was a dull but unmistakeable pain in his stomach, as if he'd taken a fist to the gut. He paused for a second, trying to puzzle it out; then he stood up. "Give me five minutes," he said.

"Coffee? We've got time for it."

"Uh... yes. Coffee," he muttered. "Fine."

John left him to get dressed. He put on the first clean things to hand - _does moving make it feel worse, y/n? -_ and came out to the kitchen just in time to see John set a cup of coffee down on the table, having had to move a jar of pebbles, a dead moth and a spanner to make room for it.

"Where's my toast?" Sherlock was looking forlornly at the living-room table where he'd last seen his uneaten meal of stone-cold toast and congealed melted butter.

"Oh, for God's sake, I threw it out, Sherlock." John rolled his eyes and leaned over to put more bread in the toaster. "Wouldn't be surprised if the mice had got to it."

"You know I don't have mice."

"You did when I lived here, and your housekeeping skills haven't improved since." John looked around the chaotic room in exasperation. "They were either mice or they were very small rats." He slid the cup of coffee across the table to Sherlock, who took a sip and nearly choked.

"Good God, John, this would keep someone awake three days after they'd _died."_

"Really?" John sounded genuinely surprised. "I'll remake it if it's too strong for you-"

"No, don't bother." Sherlock looked hard at him, scanning him over.

_Three hours of intermittent sleep last night. Probably every night for a month. He's used to taking his coffee this way._

He opened his mouth to make some sort of comment on the scenario- "I told you so", or a commentary on how ludicrous it was that human beings _wanted_ to create screaming need-machines when they had no discernable use for well-on fifteen or so years.

He decided not to say it.

There were quite a few things he wasn't saying to John these days.

* * *

"Lestrade, I need to see the _house,_ not just Mrs. Bartlett herself," Sherlock complained. What he'd initially thought would be a foray into a nice interesting murder scene had turned into the usual meeting in Lestrade's office at NSY.

"Take it up with your brother," was the inexorable response. "Got a call from him this morning. There might be an opportunity for you to go to the crime scene _later,_ provided you don't make Mrs. Bartlett cry. John..." he snapped his fingers across the desk at him. "Wakey-wakey."

John, who had been resting his head on his hand and had closed his eyes thirty seconds before, abruptly opened them again. "Yeah, I'm listening," he said blearily.

"Really? What'd I just say?"

"You said you'd take Sherlock to the Bartlett house later if Mrs. Bartlett doesn't cry during our interview," he repeated through a stifled yawn. "If there's anyone who can sleep and listen at the same time it's a former medical student, Greg."

"Bobbies do a good line in sneaking a quick kip, too. Just how much sleep did you get last night, anyway?"

"Not enough," John muttered. "And I just called you 'Greg', didn't I? Sorry."

John had always made a habit of addressing Lestrade by his surname while he was on-duty, reflecting that he had enough trouble keeping some of his underlings under control without his first name being thrown around the place.

"My name's not a secret." Lestrade glanced at Sherlock and looked amused for a second. "Both of you look like hell today. Some secret mission last night I wasn't in on?"

"Yeah, if you could call 'screaming kid' a secret mission," John said. "I've even got Harry there this morning keeping an eye on things so Molly can get some sleep."

Ordinarily, this declaration would have been a source of high interest for Sherlock - John had made it perfectly clear that he was never going to let an alcoholic babysit his child, even if she'd been sober since Charlie's birth. But Sherlock had barely been taking note of this exchange. Instead, he'd been analysing the slow but definite intensification of his stomach-ache. Well - not really his stomach, he reflected. Bit lower. Allergy? Food poisoning? He rejected these one by one. Definitely not cramps. He could thank God for those small mercies, because he wasn't going to be good for investigating if he was going to be spending all afternoon in the bathroom. All the same, it wasn't going away and it was slightly worrying. He furtively pressed his fingertips over the place, which helped a little.

"Hey, are you okay?" John frowned, gaze dropping to Sherlock's fingers. "You've gone a bit pale."

"I'm fine," Sherlock snapped. "Tell me about Adelaide Bartlett, Lestrade."

"Right, well the first thing you should know is that she and her lovely solicitor will be here shortly, and Pam Greer doesn't miss a trick." Lestrade was going through his filing cabinet. "In the meantime, let's take things from the top and give you an idea of exactly what you're dealing with. Adelaide Blanche Bartlett, aged twenty-eight." He slapped down a ten-by-twelve colour photograph of the woman in front of Sherlock, who picked it up. "Killed this guy, Thomas Edwin Bartlett, thirty-nine." He handed a photograph of a sandy-haired, tanned, serious-faced young man to John. "They met when Edwin was on a business trip to Paris, and they'd been married for ten years."

"Ten years?" John blinked.

"Ceremony was three days after her eighteenth birthday. Let's not pretend you or I can say much about age differences, and all that."

"Yeah, well," John muttered, looking at the photograph in his hand. "I didn't marry Molly when she was barely eighteen, did I. No children?"

"No. You're going to love this one. One of the drunken rants she had at the squad that night was that she's still a virgin."

John glanced up from the photograph. "Seriously?"

"Well, we haven't asked her to prove it. What's the likelihood, do you reckon?"

"Wouldn't have a clue." John was looking over Edwin Bartlett's photograph again. He shrugged. " _I_ wouldn't shag him. Is that the reason she said she killed him? He wasn't satisfying her?"

"The opposite. She said she'd been in the confidence of their family doctor, Ralph Inglis..." he handed over another photograph. "Apparently he'd given her the chloroform to... fend off Edwin's advances."

John looked at the photograph of the young doctor. "I'm starting to see my way around this now," he remarked, handing the photograph over to Sherlock. "Younger, better looking. Were they having an affair, do you think?"

"Looking into it now."

"So she admitted to chloroforming her husband to fend off his sexual advances," Sherlock muttered, looking over all three photographs. "Odd thing to confess to, don't you think? When last I looked, chloroforming people was a crime, even if they don't die of it. Was her husband abusive?"

"She hasn't claimed so. I mean, didn't smack her about or anything. But apparently he was a rare breed of hypochondriac- one who went for every dodgy hippie snake-oil treatment available to him, but refused to see an actual doctor. And he probably should have. Preliminary autopsy report." He handed it to John, who looked it over in silence before making a sudden exclamation of disgust.

"What?" Sherlock looked anxiously over his shoulder at the paper in his hand.

"Jesus, he was riddled with bloody _tapeworm."_ John handed him the report. "Something a simple course of over-the-counter tablets could've cured. No wonder she didn't want to sleep with him. So he was into herbal remedies, things like that?"

"You should see the stuff they confiscated from the house. Everything from hibiscus roots to bear bile."

" _Bear bile?_ No, don't tell me. I don't want to know." John rubbed his eyes. "But he'd take aspirin, apparently. That's at least got some medical basis, especially if he had an imaginary headache. But never saw a doctor. Was he paranoid?"

"Kind of hard to tell, since Adelaide Bartlett's our only source on that and she doesn't seem to be the full bag of marbles either-" Lestrade paused as there was a knock on the door and Sally Donovan opened it.

"Sir, Adelaide Bartlett and Pam Greer are here."

"Right, thanks." Lestrade looked at Sherlock. "Sherlock, please. Pam's not going to cop any of your antics, so just... don't, okay? By the way, Mel's sitting in with us as well. And Donovan. All your favourite people in the same place, hey?"

Sherlock scowled, but got up without saying anything.

* * *

"Mrs Bartlett," Sherlock greeted her with the calm reticence that passed, for him, for politeness. "Sherlock Holmes. I'd offer to shake your hand, but considering the circumstances, I don't think you're likely to reciprocate. This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson. I'm sure everybody knows everybody else." He threw himself into his chair, wincing slightly as he did so. "We need to ask you what happened to your husband last night."

"I've told everyone so many times," she said weakly. She was well-dressed and groomed this morning, with her black curls pinned up out of her face and her makeup carefully applied. An attractive woman, Sherlock thought blandly. In her own way.

"Start from the middle, then, if you're bored by the beginning. At half-past nine, you went up to Edwin, who'd had a headache and had taken aspirin. What happened then?"

"He said he still had a headache. He could be very... difficult and childish... when he was ill. He wanted me to hold onto his toe... he said it helped him sleep," she elaborated, seeing John's very unimpressed expression. "Thoughts come out on your face like print, Dr. Watson," she remarked to him.

"I'll take that as a compliment," he said quietly. "So for some reason, holding his toe helped him sleep. So you did it. For how long?"

"I don't know." Her voice had become weak again. "An hour, perhaps? He was sleeping, and I fell asleep in my chair, too. When I woke up again it was after one o'clock. His toe was cold and I looked over and realised..." she started to cry, and Pam Greer patted her shoulder and gently reminded her that she had the right to silence, but that she also had nothing to hide.

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock.

"No, Mrs. Bartlett," Sherlock said. "Crying is not very useful to me. Facts. I need facts. What happened then?"

"I didn't know what to do," she moaned, wiping tears away. "I called Dr. Inglis..."

"And he came to the house?" John interjected.

"No. He didn't pick up the phone. So then I called the police..."

"And _then_ you cracked open a bottle of Scotch, judging from the police report," Sherlock broke in. "Odd thing to do under pressure- for most people, anyhow. Tell me, are you an alcoholic?"

"Mr Holmes-!"

"It's a relevant question, Ms. Greer," Sherlock responded calmly. "Mrs. Bartlett, I ask again. Are you an alcoholic?"

Adelaide looked at her solicitor for a moment. "That..." she exclaimed in a sort of breathless shock, "that is none of your business!"

"You're up on charges of murder. _Everything_ is my business." Sherlock scornfully ignored the light pressure of John's hand on his arm for a second; a warning to tone it down. "Did you poison your husband, call your lover to let him know you needed a clean-up, and then turn to the bottle when he didn't pick up the phone? Because-"

Like a striking cobra, Adelaide launched across the table between them. Sherlock drew back, but not quickly enough; she dealt him a vicious rake across the face with her nails, then closed her hands around his throat. His chair tipped and crashed backwards. They both tumbled to the floor, with the enraged woman kneeling on his chest.

"Shit-"

Lestrade had grabbed Adelaide by the shoulders, locking his elbows in hers; he dragged her backwards, but her grip on Sherlock's throat held. He was coughing, red-faced, for breath.

"Donovan, give us a hand!" Lestrade shouted.

But John was quicker, reaching out and closing his own hands over Adelaide's outstretched wrists. "Mrs. Bartlett," he said calmly, "if you don't let go, I'm going to make you let go, and it _will_ hurt. Do you understand?"

She glanced up at him, wild eyes uncomprehending.

"Dr. Watson, _stop_ ," this was Pam, who had shrugged herself up against the wall and out of the chaos. "Stop. She doesn't know-"

"Adelaide, let go of Mr. Holmes." John was still quiet.

When she made no reply, John twitched his fingers over her wrists; she yelped in pain and drew back like she'd been stung. Lestrade, now with Donovan's help, pulled at her again, dragging her backwards and onto the carpet. "Donovan," he barked. "Cuffs. Now."

Donovan handed the cuffs over; as Lestrade twisted Adelaide's arms behind her back and locked the cuffs into position, she spat directly in Donovan's face. Donovan flinched, then leaned across and slammed her palm against the emergency alarm button. A siren started blaring in the hall; heavy, swift footsteps echoed outside and the door flew open to admit Halloran, Castelli and Dyer.

"Jesus-!"

"Arrest her and get her to a cell." Lestrade made sure Halloran had a firm grip on her. "Post a suicide watch. Mel- I mean, Dr. Brennan, you need to arrange for her to get a full psych evaluation as soon as possible. She may need to be in hospital. Donovan, get yourself cleaned up right now and go home until further notice. Sherlock, are you all right?"

Sherlock was still on the floor, though he was sitting up. His hands cradled his throat and he was gasping for breath, but at least, Lestrade reflected, he was breathing. Adelaide's fingernails had ripped deep gouges in his left cheek, and blood was dripping down his face and onto his collar. John was still kneeling beside him.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade insisted, noting for the first time that day how pale Sherlock really looked. But Sherlock only nodded and let John help him to his unsteady feet. He flinched and grabbed blindly for the back of the nearest upright chair as Adelaide was read her rights, then dragged out of the room and down the corridor, with the shaken Pam Greer following behind.

There was a sort of shocked silence for a few seconds, punctuated only by Sherlock's laboured breathing.

"John," Lestrade said darkly, "take Sherlock to the First Aid room and give him whatever help he needs. And then I need to see you in my office. Got a few words for you, and I'm afraid none of them are going to be 'happy birthday.'"


	5. Consequences

"What the bloody hell did you think you were doing?!" Lestrade had barely waited for John to close the office door behind him, and didn't bother gesturing for him to sit down. He moved behind his desk, but did not sit down either.

"I was saving Sherlock's life, or so it appears," was the calm answer. John folded his arms defiantly. If Lestrade knew it, he'd taken on the same tones he'd used in the army in similar situations. "You saw what happened. She had him by the throat. Do you realise how quickly that can kill someone?"

"Do you realise what a mess you've made?" Lestrade countered. " _Jesus_. What the hell is wrong with you? First you punch Dawson, then you assault a suspect in the interview room-"

"Dawson was years ago," John countered. "I wish you wouldn't keep bringing that up. And I didn't  _assault_  her. I used reasonable force to prevent her from hurting someone-"

"And she screamed like a banshee when you did it."

"She screamed like a banshee because she's  _unhinged,_ Lestrade. I twinged her median nerves, and it would have hurt her for all of maybe half a second. If you have a medical officer check her over right now I think they'll find nothing wrong with her wrists. As a matter of fact,  _you_  probably did more damage dragging her backwards like that."

Lestrade dropped into his chair and covered his face with his hands for a second. "John, do you happen to know how many men on my squad have children?"

John frowned, honestly confused. "... What's that got to do with anything-?"

"Two. Thompson and me. And my kids are practically grown up. You know how many women on my squad have children?  _None of them._ And I can tell you that divorce rates among the guys are well over the national average, too."

"Greg, is this about Mel-?"

"I realise neither you nor Molly are getting any sleep right now, but that is  _not_  an excuse, is that clear? If you were on my team and you came in to work looking like a zombie and snapped at the slightest provocation like you just did, I'd be suspending you until you sorted yourself out. No questions, no excuses."

John blinked. "You're kicking me off the case?"

"I'm warning you to shape up. I'm sick to death of being in the firing line because of your antics."

" _My_  antics?"

"Fine, well, it's usually Sherlock," Lestrade conceded wearily. "But at least he's got a legal contract and an influential brother to back him up when he goes off the rails. You know whose permission  _you_  have to even be in this building?  _Mine_. That's it. And that's why I'm going to have all sorts of fun explaining on paper why you were even in the interview room, let alone why you laid hands on a suspect in a scuffle. We're supposed to be treating Adelaide Bartlett with kid gloves -"

"Does that include letting her attack Sherlock?"

"You should have stayed out of the way and let  _us_  handle it."

"Which you were doing so well," John muttered.

"Oh, here we go." Lestrade threw his pen down in exasperation. "John Watson: the only person in London capable of doing _anything_  properly, or so you seem to think."

"That's not fair," John protested. "I didn't say -"

"But here's the thing, John. You're stretching yourself too far. You seem to think that you can play detective  _and_  go back to work at the hospital  _and_  be a decent husband  _and_ raise a kid, and I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but you  _can't_. We have to make sacrifices around here to put our work first, and I can tell you, we  _do_. And I expect that when you're here and on a case, you're going to do the same. If you're going to half-arse it because of your wife and kid, then stay at home."

There was silence so profound that both of them could hear Halloran pressing the buttons on the photocopier at the other end of the office.

"Are you done now?" John asked sullenly.

"I'm done reaming you. I'm not done with the  _fucking incident report_ I now have to file, and I can't and won't let you off on that, 'cause the whole thing's on tape." Lestrade was going through his work drawer. "How's Sherlock?"

* * *

Sherlock, sitting on the folding bed in the First Aid room with a cool compress around his throat, leaned his back against the wall and shut his eyes, thinking hard about what had happened.

_The psychology of a poisoner is totally different to the psychology of a madwoman who leaps across a desk to strangle someone. Poisoners are calculated. If Adelaide Bartlett is psychotic, she'd probably make no attempt to secretly poison her husband... she'd have just attacked him as she did me. Perhaps with a knife in her hand...something doesn't match here..._

He struggled to keep his thoughts on the case, and not on the pain in his stomach that had worsened in earnest since Adelaide had thrown herself on him so violently. It was impossible to ignore, and the pressure of his hand was actually making it feel worse now. Both his thoughts on the case and on the pain were interrupted when the door opened slightly. Sally Donovan made a vague exclamation of surprise and took a step backward.

"Sorry," she blurted out. "Didn't know you were in here. You forgot to switch the sign on the door, genius."

"It's fine," he muttered, annoyed at how croaky he sounded for the time being. "I thought Lestrade told you to go home."

"He did, and I'm going." He could see the damp patches around her hairline and the irritated skin around her nose- she'd clearly been scrubbing at her face for some time. She took a couple of hesitant steps into the room. "I just realised I ripped one of my nails off - or at least, that crazy bitch did it for me." She looked at her bleeding finger ruefully. "Just looking for a sticking plaster, then I'm off home."

Sherlock pointed silently at the First Aid kit on the wall. She went over to it, sneaking a look at him over her shoulder, and then another, longer one. "You okay?" she finally ventured.

Sherlock would have preferred a few snarky remarks about being a "freak" than to have Sally Donovan express actual concern for him. But Donovan hadn't addressed him as "freak" since... what had happened last Christmas.

"What does it look like?" he demanded.

"You look bloody awful." She was looking, he realised, not at his neck (he was sure that it was bright red, without needing to check in a mirror) but at his face.

"Well then, that's your answer, isn't it?"

She paused, fumbling with the sticking plaster and wrapping it around her finger, even though there was no longer any need for her to be in the room. "Bit of an adventure in there, wasn't it," she said at last. "Where's John?"

"Getting shouted at by Detective Inspector Lestrade, I imagine."

"That's a shame. I mean, he should've just kept out of the way, but..." she shrugged.

Sherlock, not meeting her gaze, sighed heavily, hoping she would take the hint and leave.

"Nobody's laughing at you," she said suddenly. "Just so you know."

He glanced at her, shaking his head in incomprehension for a few seconds. "Sorry... what...?"

"We're not laughing about Adelaide Bartlett attacking you like that." Donovan's face was composed; she was serious. "Happens from time-to-time. Get the odd mental case in the interview room. Jones had one go for her once. So we're not laughing just 'cause it was you this time. I just thought I'd say."

Sherlock's eyes flickered back and forth in confusion for a few seconds. "Thank you," he said, unsure of whether this was what he should say or even if it was what he meant to say. Before he could think further on the issue, John arrived in the doorway, knocking on the open door and then moving aside slightly so that Donovan could leave.

"Everything okay?" he asked Sherlock, who answered by slithering off the bed sulkily, wincing in pain as his feet hit the floor. He started to remove the cool pack from around his neck.

"Nope, you're taking that with you," John told him, putting it back. "If you think you're going to look ridiculous on the way home, you'll look  _more_  ridiculous if your throat swells shut and you pass out." He touched Sherlock's gouged cheek for a second, inspecting it.

"Oh, for God's sake." Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes.

"Have you got any idea how many germs are under people's fingernails?"

"Yes."

"Right, well, you see my point, then. You look after that or you'll have a lovely scar there for your troubles." John sighed. "So what do we do next?"

"Next, we think," Sherlock told him loftily as they headed down the corridor toward the lifts. "Or rather,  _I_  think."

"Yes, I know, I'm an idiot," John conceded calmly. "Fine. You can do your thinking at my place, then- I don't want to leave Harry in charge for any longer than I absolutely have to, Sherlock."

* * *

"Well, we did gather quite a lot of information this morning," Sherlock commented as they walked in the door. Molly came forward to greet John; she was in her dressing gown, so on seeing Sherlock, she retreated a few steps in sudden embarrassment. John went over and kissed her cheek.

"How's our charming daughter been?" he asked her.

"Good," she muttered, flushed. "She's always good for Harry. She..." she took a deep breath. "She likes her... um... I'll just go and get dressed..."

She practically fled upstairs. Harry came through from the kitchen with Charlie, placid and cooing to herself, in her arms.

"No, dear brother, I  _didn't_  get rip-roaring drunk and accidentally put my niece in the oven or something," she said caustically before John could open his mouth. "She's fine, aren't you, Sprout?"

How Harry had managed to turn _Charlotte_ into  _Sprout_ was a complete mystery. She turned to Sherlock. "What in God's name happened to you?" she demanded, looking at the scratches on his face and then down at the cold pack on his neck. "Never mind, here."

"No-" Sherlock protested, but Harry was too quick; before he had time to properly react he was holding Charlie up against his chest, cradling her neck with one hand. He glared at Harry, who shrugged.

"What can I say?" she commented. "It amuses me to watch you squirm. You look like hell. Bad guy beat you up, did he?"

"Uh... yes," Sherlock muttered, hoping John wouldn't let on that he'd been beaten up by a rather bad girl. He shifted Charlie awkwardly in his arms, wincing both at the pain this produced and because he felt her drooling directly onto a silk shirt that had cost him nearly two hundred pounds. "John," he called to the kitchen where he had gone to put the kettle on, "surely you noticed the glaring inconsistency in Adelaide Bartlett's story?"

"... Probably...?"

"Once again you've heard but you haven't been  _listening!_  Tell me. What sort of symptoms would a person exhibit if they'd been acutely poisoned with chloroform?"

"Well, they wouldn't be happy. Probably wouldn't pass out immediately-"

"Exactly," Sherlock cut him off. "And what did Adelaide say she was doing when she woke?"

John paused. "... His toe," he stammered. "Oh yes, of course. There's no way a person who'd drank chloroform would be passive enough that someone who'd been asleep would still have hold of their toe. The slightest movement-"

"Exactly. Not to mention the... the fact... the..." Sherlock suddenly winced and shut his eyes. "Harry," he blurted out urgently. "Take her- take her!"

"John!" Harry exclaimed, hurriedly taking her niece back. John reached the doorway in seconds; Sherlock, white-faced, was lowering himself into a nearby armchair.

"What is it, what's wrong?" John demanded sharply, going over to him. "Sherlock-"

"I'm all right," he insisted through pale lips. "I'm fine. I just... felt dizzy, that's all."

"Are you in pain?"

Sherlock had wrapped his arms around himself and was hunched forward. Getting no immediate answer to his question, John knelt by his chair and eased his hand away from his side to take his pulse. Just then Molly arrived at the foot of the stairs and was standing hesitantly in the doorway, watching in some alarm.

"Sherlock, I asked you a serious question. If you're in a lot of pain, you need to tell me."

"I had a full-grown woman land on me a couple of hours ago," Sherlock snapped, snatching his hand away and sighing heavily when John rather roughly took it back. "Just give me a minute and I'll be off. I need to go and present myself to Lord Mycroft for my dressing-down, I suppose."

"Yeah, I think we both need to do that," John muttered, putting down Sherlock's wrist and putting his hand against his forehead. "Pretty sure he's already heard all about how I apparently assaulted his suspect. Well, you're not feverish."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine, and Mycroft is going to have to wait. I'm calling the clinic to see if I can get you an appointment this afternoon..." He pinched the back of Sherlock's hand.

"Ow!"

 "Bit dehydrated. No wonder you're dizzy."

"I'm not dizzy anymore," Sherlock protested, but John had already gone back to the kitchen. He sighed. The thought of swallowing even water made him want to heave. Tucking his hands back under his arms, he leaned forward again, trying to will the pain to just go away.


	6. Urgent Care

The knock on his office door startled Lestrade, and he immediately pulled back in his chair and tried to look like he'd just been hard at work and not slumped over his desk in gloomy contemplation. Luckily, it was Melissa standing at the door and not, say, Dyer. She looked cool and collected, despite the ordeal in the interview room. But then, Lestrade reflected, she was used to dealing with those sort of performances. Melissa had once said that a day she didn't have to deal with an inmate who was cutting off various body parts as a sympathy ploy for early release was considered a good day.

"Hey, are you okay?" she asked him, frowning a little.

"Yeah..." Lestrade flailed ineffectually at some of the reports on his desk, then decided to give up on any pretense that he was working. "Yeah, I'm fine. Sent Donovan home, and Sherlock and John have headed off too, so we're a bit understaffed."

Mentally, Lestrade thought of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson as members of his team, even though they were not on the payroll and John, as he'd just had cause to point out, had no clearance to be anywhere near crime scenes. He restlessly picked up a pen, then put it down again. "So how's Addie Bartlett?"

"I've put in an order to move her to a psychiatric facility for further evaluation." Melissa sat down unasked. "I don't like it any more than you do, but safe is safe."

"Has she said anything else?"

"Not in English. She's trying to give off the idea that she's regressed into French only, and doesn't appear to understand English at all."

"She's trying to 'give off'?"

Melissa nodded calmly. "You see that quite often among the mentally distressed- sometimes it's genuine, but I don't think it is in Addie's case. If you want my professional opinion, she's just as sane as I am. I'm making that known to the appropriate people, but I don't get to make that call."

Lestrade blinked. "You think the whole freak-out was an act?"

"Somewhere between an act and the truth, but a vicious temper doesn't make her insane." Melissa wrapped a lock of hair idly around one finger- a gesture Lestrade was ambivalent about, since it made her seem like a schoolgirl. "Now I suppose the difficult thing will be determining whether she attacked Sherlock because he had arrived at the truth, or at least next door to it," she said, "or because she's such a delicate little flower that the idea of having sex with her own husband gives her the vapours, much less the idea of having an affair with her doctor."

"I need to send officers around to chat with Dr. Inglis," Lestrade told her. "Buying chloroform over the internet isn't a crime, especially since he did it using his own name and bank details. Still, I'd like to know from his own mouth why he did it, since Addie's not to be trusted..." he trailed off as there was a knock on the door and Bob Thompson opened it.

"Thompson. What's happening?"

"Sir." Donovan's balding, overweight right-hand-man was puffing slightly; if he hadn't been running (very unlikely, knowing Bob) he'd clearly been walking faster than his body was comfortable with. "Mycroft Holmes is here to see you, sir."

 _Oh, shit,_ Lestrade thought, resisting the urge to slam his forehead against the desk. Mycroft bloody Holmes was in his _bloody office_.

Although he'd known Mycroft for as long as he'd known Sherlock - had met them both the same day, under similar circumstances to John Watson - the older Holmes had never dared, or condescended, to approach him at work or his home. Too lazy, Lestrade had reflected. It was more fun to send a car or make a phone call or even send a few pissy little texts to achieve the same effect. That Mycroft had finally come to New Scotland Yard and asked to see him in person was, frankly, terrifying.

"Show him in, then." Lestrade looked resignedly across the desk at Melissa.

"Do you want me to go?" she asked him. "Because I kind of want to listen in on this."

"Oh, do as you please, you're only going to hear all about it again later anyway." Lestrade held himself up a little straighter as Mycroft let himself into the office, three-piece suit and fob watch entirely at odds with the industrial-weave carpet and cluttered desk before him. Lestrade stood up and leaned across that desk to shake his hand.

"Mr. Holmes," he said politely. "As you've no doubt heard, we've had a situation erupt with Mrs. Bartlett, who attacked your brother this morning."

"So I've been informed." Mycroft looked sour. "It would have been helpful if I'd heard it from you or my brother before now, but I've long since given up any idea that you'll keep me informed when something like this occurs." He looked pointedly at Melissa, as if to question her presence.

"Mel's the forensic psychologist assigned to this case," Lestrade told him politely. "She was present when the interview occurred and can vouch for what happened. We've sent Mrs. Bartlett to be remanded in a psychiatric unit pending more information. I bet her father's pleased." He gestured Mycroft into a chair and sat down himself. Melissa did the same; Mycroft did not so much as glance at her.

"That's what I've come about, Inspector," he said. "I trust that, er..."

"Dr. Brennan," Melissa supplied briskly.

"I trust that you can be discreet about what I'm about to divulge, Dr. Brennan."

"It's my job to be discreet, Mr. Holmes."

"Just so. I'm afraid you've not been let in on the full picture of this case, Inspector. But you can hardly blame me for it, as I was working on orders of my superiors."

It had never really occurred to Lestrade before that Mycroft even _had_ superiors, unless you were counting Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second. "And those superiors have changed their minds?" He was gaining an understanding of why it was that Mycroft had broken tradition and seen him in his office.

"No." Mycroft could make the smallest word sound like an anvil blow. "Hence the reason for discretion. The truth of the matter is that La Tremoille is not Adelaide's father, but her guardian."

Lestrade looked puzzled. "Why the secrecy?" he asked.

"Adelaide's mother bore her out of wedlock," Mycroft explained, unexpectedly prudish about the subject matter. "She was a society woman of Paris, of a well-connected and important family, and that's all I'm willing to divulge."

"And Adelaide's father?"

"An Englishman."

" _Which_ Englishman?" Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. He bloody _hated_ this guess-what-Holmes-is-thinking game. But Mycroft glanced down at the handle of his umbrella.

"I'm not at liberty to divulge that, either-"

"Mycroft, if it's _you,_ it might be easier if you just fess up. You wouldn't be the first person to do something dumb when you were young." Lestrade was thinking, as he sometimes idly did, of a girlfriend he'd had at the age of seventeen who'd abruptly dumped him and moved to Colchester with her family. He'd never seen her again, but always wondered...

"Lord, no." Mycroft looked vaguely disgusted. "Certainly _not_. But an Englishman of some significance to the British Government, let us say. Adelaide's mother suffered from paranoid schizophrenia and committed suicide when her child was six. Adelaide's birth father was not in a position to reveal his identity, however, he did arrange for her to become La Tremoille's ward."

"And where is this Englishman now?"

"Still of some significance to the British government, and more than willing to pay for the best legal counsel available, and that includes my brother. Were he not a wealthy man before, Sherlock will be so if he's able to come through with this case."

Lestrade twirled the pen in his hands nervously. "And if Adelaide is guilty?" he ventured.

"The price is for the integrity of his counsel, not the decision of a jury."

There was a short silence. Lestrade was still twirling his pen. "Is this why it's so important that we suck up to her as much as possible?" he suddenly asked.

"I think a man of your calibre could easily make a deduction on that point, Inspector."

"Okay. So why are you telling me all this?"

"Because I need you to understand how much is at stake." Mycroft rose. "So my brother was attacked, then. Not seriously injured, I hope?"

"She took a nice chunk out of his pretty face, and he'll have a few bruises around his throat, I reckon." Lestrade noticed the real concern that flitted across Mycroft's face for a second. "But John says he's okay." He shrugged. "Maybe you should call him and see?"

Concern was quickly jostled out of the way by Mycroft's usual shuttered demeanour. "Calling him is easy," he commented. "Getting him to actually respond is the more difficult part."

"You're telling me."

* * *

Stephen Hassell's many talents included one for gathering information; Mycroft's already lightning-fast sources were even faster now that Stephen was on hand to shoulder some of the work. He'd heard about Adelaide Bartlett's attack on Sherlock not ten minutes after it had occurred, and had been calling his little brother's phone at regular five-minute intervals since then. A call to Mrs. Hudson's landline had revealed that she was not at home, or not answering; Sherlock was apparently not at home either.

But he had left New Scotland Yard with John, who had an almost obsessively polite need to answer every call and text that came his way, whether it pleased him or not. A remnant from his army days, perhaps; responding literally to the call, as it were. Or perhaps something from his days of being at the beck and call of a medical pager.

Either way, it irked Mycroft to have to pull out his phone and send a text to John, but Lestrade's mention of bruises around Sherlock's throat was... alarming, so it had to be done. As he emerged from the building and followed the scent of tobacco smoke on the breeze for an island of smoking zone, Mycroft pulled out his phone with one hand and lit a cigarette deftly with the other.

_I am growing very tired of this childish game. Tell my brother to call me immediately- Mycroft Holmes_

The response was almost instant.

_Save it for later Mycroft. I've got him at the urgent care clinic._

* * *

Mycroft deduced which clinic John was talking about and arrived there thirty-four minutes later, finding John dozing in a waiting-room chair and Sherlock nowhere in sight. He brought himself to John's attention by launching into conversation without preliminary.

"What in God's name is going on?" he demanded.

John startled slightly and opened his eyes. "Oh, it's you," he remarked. "I was wondering when you'd get here. Sherlock passed out in the bathroom at my place." He rubbed his eyes blearily. "He's in quite a lot of pain, too. Wouldn't go to the emergency room for it. I practically had to drag him here. He's in being seen now."

 _Drag_ had been the wrong expression, however. John hadn't needed to drag Sherlock to the clinic. He'd simply taken advantage of his woozy state when he'd come to and managed to get him into a cab without any real protest.

"And...?"

"And _what?_ No, I don't know what's wrong with him yet," John told him peevishly. "Pain gravitating to the _left_ side and no fever, so it's not appendicitis. And I'm pretty sure the passing out is dehydration, or blood sugar... or both."

"He's not eating properly again." Mycroft heaved a sigh.

"When does he ever? I imagine they'll -" John cut himself off, glancing past Mycroft's shoulder, and stood up. Sherlock had just come back out to the waiting room, papers clutched in his left hand. He walked stiffly, slowly, carefully placing each foot on the floor; Mycroft turned to him and did a double take, both at his brother's pallor and at the marks that Adelaide Bartlett had left on him.

There was no doubt about it: Sherlock Holmes was in pain.

"So what did the doctor think?" John asked him before Mycroft could speak.

"The doctor did not think _enough_ ," Sherlock remarked grumpily. "They never do. Anyway. So I'm dehydrated."

John rolled his eyes. "God, what a shock."

"Shut up," he snarled. "They took blood, but I won't find out the results until tomorrow. Before you say anything, Mycroft, that Bartlett woman attacked me."

"I heard," Mycroft said briefly, with no hint of amusement.

"Did they say what they think it could be?" John was no longer interested in Addie Bartlett and entirely focused on the issue at hand.

"Diverticulitis," Sherlock responded bluntly, seeing no need to elaborate on the somewhat-embarrassing details of the condition for the benefit of his doctor friend and genius brother. "But it's only a guess."

"Diverticulitis- really?" John blinked. "You're a bit young for - no, cancel that. Given all the horrible things you've done to your digestive system over the last thirty years, I'm not all _that_ surprised. But you should be running a fever if you've got any form of infection."

"I think that might be coming on now. Temperature of 37.8. I have a CT scan at nine tomorrow morning, if that'll shut you up." Sherlock shoved the paperwork at John and lowered himself carefully into the chair beside. John was looking over the papers, muttering to himself.

"Antibiotics, oral rehydration solution... oh, you'll _love_ that... liquids-only, bed rest... paracetamol... pretty standard. But they couldn't get you in for a CT scan earlier than tomorrow morning?"

"Apparently not," Sherlock said. "They're not classifying this as quite the emergency that _you_ are."

"Well they _should_ be classifying it as one," John retorted, not minding if half the waiting-room heard his opinion on the subject. "I'll tell you what, if you were _my_ patient, I'd be admitting you immediately. Dehydration can kill you, and diverticulitis isn't a joke, Sherlock."

"I'm not laughing."

John sighed. He had to square with the fact that, just at the moment, he was _not_ Sherlock's doctor. And whoever _was_ Sherlock's doctor, they had a point. There was no reason for someone to take up a hospital bed, provided they weren't in imminent danger and their treatment could just as easily be administered at home. "Fine," he said grudgingly. "At least they've given you some powerful antibiotics; they should hit whatever you've got pretty hard. We'll get those on the way back."

"Then we need to get moving." Sherlock glanced at his watch and stood back up with some effort. "This entire venture has been extremely inconvenient. I have a meeting with a client at Baker Street in just over an hour, and I need to prepare beforehand."

John stared at him. "A _client_...?"

"Oh, didn't I say? I've been in contact with Tim Bartlett." Sherlock sounded rather pleased with himself. "Brother of the dear departed Edwin. I have a feeling that he's a much better source on the relationship and personalities of Edwin and Adelaide than the grieving widow is."

"Mycroft, for God's sake, _tell him_." John spoke through his hands. "Tell him he can' t-"

Mycroft cleared his throat and rose to the occasion. "My understanding of 'bed rest' is that it involves rest in bed," he said carefully. "Which precludes the reception of clients for the time being."

Sherlock smiled grimly. "I'm sure I can manage both."


	7. Tim Bartlett

Understandably, John had been expecting Tim Bartlett to be a sort of avatar of his late brother's photograph - gaunt, sandy-haired and freckled. But the man standing on the step of 221B Baker Street just over an hour later was tall – taller than Sherlock – and stocky; as swarthy as a pirate in a pantomime. John didn't need to channel Sherlock to casually reflect _adopted,_ then to wonder whether the biological child was Edwin, Tim or neither of them, and whether that had any bearing on Edwin's murder.

His _apparent_ murder. Because really, he'd told an unimpressed Sherlock just five minutes before, it _could_ have been a suicide. That'd explain the minimal damage caused by the chloroform...

Sherlock wasn't having it. Edwin Bartlett had been murdered by his deranged wife, Adelaide.

And now Tim Bartlett was standing uncertainly on the doorstep, dressed in a low-key grey suit and wearing an expression that was not, John reflected, exactly of the funereal variety. He wasn't smiling, exactly, but... well, maybe he was just one of those people who had a pleasant face and couldn't help it.

"Mr. Bartlett." John shook his hand politely. "It's good of you to come. I'm sorry for your loss. Come in... I think it's about to rain." He ushered the younger man into the front hall.

"Mr. Holmes...?" Tim ventured uncertainly. John smiled.

"Not even close. John Watson. Hi. Um, Mr. Holmes is more than prepared to see you this afternoon, but I should warn you, this might be a bit of an unusual consultation..." He was leading Tim up the stairs by now.

"Unusual?"

John, who was not in the least impressed by the turn of events he was dealing with, held in a sigh. "He's not well at the moment, but you needn't worry. He's not contagious. I'm his doctor," he added, as if to reassure Tim that he knew what he was talking about.

"Perhaps I should come back another time-?"

"He'd kill me, Mr. Bartlett. Come on up, and please excuse the mess."

* * *

 

"Ah, Mr. Bartlett." Sherlock shifted slightly from where he was ensconced on the bed, pillows propped behind his back and the duvet over his knees. He was very pale, but his eyes were keen with interest. "Forgive me for not standing to greet you. My colleague and doctor has an unsurprisingly literal interpretation of the expression 'bed rest'."

"Can I offer you a cup of tea, Mr. Bartlett?" John asked politely, before Sherlock could complain more about his bedside manner. "Maybe coffee?"

"I'd be very grateful for a straight black," was the polite, almost timid response- a response at odds with Tim Bartlett's frank physicality and the tenor of his voice. "No sugar, thank you. I'm sorry to see you're ill, Mr. Holmes..." He turned to the pallid detective on the bed. "I can certainly come back later if this is an inconvenient time..."

"No, not at all." Sherlock snapped his fingers at John. "I want a drink, too, and I don't want any more of that _horrible_ rehydration liquid."

John paused in the doorway. No, he was absolutely _not_ going to get into a childish battle of wills with Sherlock in front of a client. He could bully the overgrown toddler into taking his medicine a little later. "You know it's supposed to taste like tears, Sherlock," he said patiently.

"I don't care what it's _supposed_ to taste like, it's vile."

John rolled his eyes. "Okay. What do you want, then? You are _not_ having coffee."

"Juice," Sherlock demanded sulkily.

"Yeah, fine, okay, juice. Any kind in particular, Your Majesty?"

Sherlock twitched the duvet further over himself. "You choose."

"Oh, well, thank you for that vote of confidence. You are _such_ a pain when you're sick..." John, going to the kitchen for Tim's coffee and for the apple juice they'd picked up on the way back to the flat, reflected that Sherlock driving him up the wall with childish orders wasn't necessarily a bad thing. He'd rarely seen Sherlock truly sick, but when he was, he was like a cat- he just crawled into a dark place and lay there, too miserable to even complain. By the time he returned with the drinks, Tim had settled in the armchair. There being no other seats, John went over and rested slightly against the windowsill.

"I see you've purchased a new suit, Mr. Bartlett," Sherlock remarked, gesturing to it. "For the funeral?"

Tim looked down at himself, brushing a speck off his lapel. "Uh, yes," he muttered.

"It's all right, I'm not going to accuse you of being overdressed, though I imagine that that's exactly what Dr. Watson is thinking right now- and no doubt he's probably trying to work out if it's relevant to the case. You needn't bother, John. It isn't."

From the window, John sighed heavily.

"I suppose this has been a great burden on your family." This was about as polite as Sherlock ever got. John glanced in trepidation to Tim, whose face hardly changed.

"I loved my brother, Mr. Holmes."

Both Sherlock and John immediately recognised the conviction in Tim Bartlett's voice. But that wasn't going to be the end of Sherlock's enquiries. "And your sister-in-law?" he persisted. "What about her?"

"Oh, Addie's a good sort." Tim shrugged and sipped his coffee.

"An odd thing to say about the woman who might have poisoned your brother," Sherlock remarked, steepling his fingers in contemplation. "So you don't think she killed him, I imagine?"

"Do you?" Tim crossed his arms for the first time since settling into the armchair. Sherlock's grey eyes suddenly sharpened into deep interest, and he leaned forward slightly.

"Answer the question," he demanded in a low voice.

Tim held the detective's gaze for a few seconds. "No, I don't think she killed him," he finally said wearily. "I mean, yep, I've heard what apparently happened. She was the only one who could have done it. But I can't for one second imagine that she had any motive to."

"She told the police she'd been chloroforming him to avoid his sexual advances."

Tim's eyes widened in genuine surprise for half a second. "Really? Bloody hell, poor Ed. He must've been the only one."

John raised an eyebrow. "The only one?" he interjected, ignoring the don't-interfere glance that Sherlock cast him. "Addie told the police that she's still a virgin."

Tim coughed into his cup of coffee, then set it down on the floor, spluttering until John started to wonder if the man needed first aid. Finally he subsided, wiping his streaming eyes.

"That amuses you," Sherlock remarked blandly.

"Cracks me up," Tim corrected him. "No, she's not a virgin, and the plod must be the dumbest in London to believe that story."

"You're sleeping with her?" John, too, had crossed his arms. But Tim looked extremely unapologetic.

"Not in a while." He took another sip of his coffee. "Gone off each other a bit recently. But we'd started all that just after they got back from the honeymoon."

"That's a pretty low thing to do to your brother," John told him severely.

"No, Ed was fine with it," was the calm response. "In fact, he more or less told me to keep up the good work."

"Really?" John said. "I mean, look, I've heard of open marriages and stuff, but I don't think I've ever heard of one where the husband was fine with the wife sleeping with his brother when she wasn't sleeping with him, too."

"Ed was a bit... peculiar like that, poor sod." Tim leaned back contemplatively in his chair. From that angle, his swarthy face looked almost menacing. "That marriage was odd from the get-go."

Sherlock frowned. "Odd? How?"

"It was like... like an arranged marriage or something. When Ed asked La Tremoille if he could marry Addie, he told him that his intentions were honourable and he had no intentions of ever sleeping with her."

"And La Tremoille gave his daughter to someone who said he'd never sleep with her?" John gaped. "How did Addie feel about that? Did she not want to have kids?"

"Don't know. Like I said, Ed wasn't possessive about who _was_ sleeping with her, so if she ever wanted to have a kid to someone else, he mightn't have minded." He sipped his coffee. "Ed had some odd ideas about... well, about _everything_ , really. Terrified of doctors. He didn't want one to tell him he was dying, or something. Used a lot of rubbish cures that didn't do anything."

"Yes, we've been hearing about that," John commented, unimpressed. "But Addie didn't have a problem with doctors?"

"I don't think she was fucking Dr. Inglis, if that's what you mean," was the candid response. "But she saw him as a professional, yeah. Good guy, Inglis. Bit of a wimp, but... yeah. Anyway, one of the things that Ed would go on about if you let him was that he thought men should have two wives. One for... I don't know, companionship and to talk about intellectual stuff with."

"And the other for...?"

" _Use_."

"Oh." John exchanged a brief glance with Sherlock. "And so Addie was the intellectual companion, then. So you don't think he _ever_ slept with her?"

"Not that I ever heard. I really think he didn't intend to, not at first, anyway. After they got married, he even packed her off to Uni for the first three years- residential and everything. She only saw him during the holidays."

"Which university was it?" Sherlock asked him.

"Leeds. Majored in... psychology, I think."

Sherlock chuckled softly to himself. "What an odd education for a woman who's trying to pretend her English skills are poor," he remarked.

"Oh, Addie's English skills are fine, though she used to pull it on Dad every now and again."

"Dad?" John prompted.

"Our mum died not long after Ed and Addie got married," Tim related calmly. "And then Dad decided he was moving in with them, since they had a spare room. I don't think I've ever felt more sorry for either of them. Dad really hated Addie... thought she was sly. Pretty sure she hated him, too. They drove each other crazy. He lived there for three years before they finally moved somewhere else..." he chuckled again. "Somewhere without a spare bedroom, of course."

"What did your father do then?" John asked him.

"Nursing home. He died last year... are you sure you're okay, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock was gripping the duvet in both white-knuckled fists; John rose in alarm. "Sherlock?"

"Give me some paracetamol," he demanded.

"You've only just had-"

" _Now_." Sherlock's hand had strayed to his left side again, and there was a hitch in his breath.

John looked despairingly at Tim, who was already on his feet. "I'll, uh, leave you to it, then," he muttered. "I hope you're feeling better soon, Mr. Holmes."

"I do, too," John said, still looking closely at Sherlock but reluctant to produce the pills he wanted. "Thank you for taking the time to see us, Mr. Bartlett. And once again, I'm really very sorry for your loss."

He showed Tim out down the stairs and through the street door; when he returned he finally handed over two pills, watching in some concern as Sherlock threw them both back without anything to wash them down.

 _Antibiotics_ really _should have started to work by now._

"Here," he muttered, passing him the half-glass of apple juice from the bedside table. "You really need to be taking in more fluids, Sherlock. I don't care if it's juice, or water, but it's got to be something... and not coffee... that'll make it worse..."

"Fine," he snapped, holding out the now-empty glass in clear expectation of more.

 _I deserved that._ John sighed and went out to the kitchen. He was standing at the fridge, mercifully devoid of cadaver parts for the time being, when his phone rang. Alarmed for a second, he fished it out of his jeans pocket and inspected the incoming ID.

_Harry._

His heart skipped two beats: one for Molly, and one for Charlie.

"Harry," he said down the line, trying to sound collected. "Is everything okay?"

He heard it before his sister's voice: the high-pitched, enraged background screams of protest from Charlie. _Well, it could be worse..._

"John, out of curiosity, do you actually plan to be home at some stage before Charlie's first birthday?" Harry demanded. "Because she's been screaming for thirty-two minutes and counting, and Molly's blundering around looking very much like she wants to sell her to the highest bidder on Ebay."

"I'm coming home now," he said. "You know-" He stopped.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." John had a feeling that _you know Sherlock's sick_ wasn't going to earn him much more than a torrent of foul-mouthed abuse from Harry. "On my way."

"Hurry up." She hung up on him.

John exhaled and went slowly back into the bedroom. "I'm sorry, Sherlock," he said reluctantly, putting the full glass down on the bedside table again. "Charlie's being difficult, and Molly needs me home."

"Hmm?" Sherlock emerged from deep thought. "Oh - fine," he muttered vaguely.

"You'll be all right here on your own?"

"Perfectly fine."

"I'm going to leave your medication and drinks here, okay?" John plunked the packet of paracetamol down on the bedside table, searching in his pocket for the antibiotics. "Double dose at ten o'clock, and then single dose when you get up. Set an alarm if you have to. You've got that scan at nine."

"Yes," he agreed blandly.

"How are you feeling?"

"Bloody awful."

John frowned. It wasn't like Sherlock to make such a frank admission. "The meds _really_ should have kicked in by now," he muttered, but it was half to himself. "Here's enough paracetamol to get you through the night- so if you try to be cute and have yourself a little overdose, you won't have any left for when you really need it. And no wandering around in the middle of the night. Bathroom and back. Fridge if you need some more water. Got it?"

"Mmm."

"I'm going to just check your temperature again -"

"John, unless you're looking for an imminent divorce, I strongly recommend you leave sometime in the next twenty seconds," Sherlock told him crossly, batting away his outstretched hand.

"Fine." John rubbed his eyes for a second. "Fine, I'm going. But Sherlock, if you're not feeling any better after your next dose, call me, okay? I can come back, even if you just don't want to be alone while you're not feeling great. Or call Mycroft. Or Greg. Or _somebody._ And I'll be back tomorrow morning to get you sorted for this scan, okay? Half seven-"

"John. Out."

John would never have admitted to ever storming out of the flat, but he did close both the bedroom and flat doors rather forcefully after himself.


	8. Emergency

There was an almost freakish quiet about the place when John slipped in the front door at half-past five. Neither Molly nor Harry were in sight. He wandered through to the kitchen where he found Harry hovering over the contents of the fridge.

"What's going on?" he asked.

"Upstairs, feeding her." Harry pointed vaguely to the ceiling above. "God, she was a right little bugger this time."

"Harry!"

"Well, she _was._ We figured she was beside herself because she was hungry, but she was too worked up for a while to even remember how to nurse."

"Gee, I wonder where she gets _that_  from." John rolled his eyes and went upstairs, knocking briefly on the bedroom door before opening it. He found Molly slumped against the headboard of the bed, Charlie at her breast.

"I'm sorry..." She shifted Charlie in her arms. "I didn't want to drag you away from Sherlock when he's sick, but Harry wanted to call you."

"He's not _that_ sick," he said, sitting beside her on the mattress and touching Charlie's fair hair gently with two fingers. "He'll cope without me. He wasn't exactly in a talkative mood when I left, anyway. Um. Harry says she was pretty awful this time."

"She was just hungry, I think. I feel like an idiot for not realising-"

"Hey, Lolly, what did we say about you being an idiot- or _not_ being an idiot?" he reminded her quietly. "I don't think you're any worse at guessing what she wants than me or Harry or anyone else, and that includes Brooke Cade."

Molly was silent for a few seconds. "Well," she said, "she's about falling asleep now, at last. I hope she'll be down for a couple of hours."

"Me too. For everyone's sanity." John leaned over and kissed her forehead, then went back downstairs to where Harry had made herself a cup of tea and was sitting at the table with it. She looked almost as tired-out and miserable as Molly. To do her credit, she'd helped out a lot with Charlie over the last few weeks.

"What's that Turkish place on the main road?" he asked her without warning. "Something Baklava? Here." He shoved a couple of ten-pound notes into her hand. "Take Molly there when she's done with Charlie, will you? I've heard the ice cream is good."

Harry looked at the notes in her hand. "Okay," she said slowly. "What about Charlie?"

John frowned. "What _about_ her?"

"Well, I assume you want us to go without her. Are you going to be okay with her on your own?"

"Oh, for God's sake." John rolled his eyes. "Yes. I'm not _babysitting,_ Harry, she's my kid. And she's nearly asleep, anyway. Just... give Molly at least an hour, and... talk about TV together, or something like that."

Sighing, Harry put the money in her wallet. "Fine," she muttered. "An hour."

"At least."

Harry had to practically drag Molly away. When John was sure they'd actually left the house and were walking up toward the main road, he went upstairs to the nursery door. Behind it, he could hear Charlie snuffling in her sleep.

_Thank God for that._

He went back down to where his phone was sitting on the coffee table and sat down, thumbing out a text:

**_Everything OK?_ **

The answer was almost instant.

**_I'm fine - S_ **

* * *

Arriving at the psychiatric care unit of the hospital at half-past nine, Mycroft half-expected to see Adelaide Bartlett sporting a straitjacket. But of course, they didn't use such things in modern psychiatric medicine. She was sitting forlornly on her flat little hospital bed, garbed in a checkered hospital gown, her bare feet swinging close to the linoleum floor. In her tailored, fashionable clothing, she had looked slim and graceful; in an oversized hospital gown, she simply looked skinny and fragile. She glanced up at him as he shut the door behind him and took a few paces into the room.

" _Monsieur_ -"

"No," he said. "No, Adelaide. I don't believe you. Drop the act."

She exhaled deeply and put her face in her hands for a few seconds. "Who are you?" she asked him.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes. I'm a minor government employee, and you attacked my little brother earlier today, which is why you're here."

Adelaide looked sulkily at the floor. "I did not mean to attack him," she said.

"I'll be sure to let him know." Mycroft looked around. "Well, this is a delightful room, for a psychiatric ward. Doesn't it bother you to be remanded here because of an act? Not to mention the future possibility of your being drugged for no reason and at the possible mercy of patients that really _are_ mentally ill. And the pretence of mental instability must be exhausting to have to keep up when you're under constant surveillance." He glanced at the closed door, then smiled slightly. "Well. _Almost_ constant surveillance."

"What do you want?" She had drawn back, her pupils like saucers. Mycroft smiled again.

"I want you to tell me how you did it, Mrs. Bartlett."

"I didn't kill Edwin!"

"And the only other solution is that he killed _himself_ , which we both know did not happen," Mycroft said. "Your statement was particularly poorly thought out in that respect, and I'm referring to the one you gave while sober. Several rather ludicrous inconsistencies. Have you ever heard of Occam's Razor?"

Adelaide frowned. Mycroft reflected that while her English was a great deal better than she led most to believe, she was genuinely confused about who Occam was and how a razor had anything to do with things.

"Put simply," he said in patronising tones, "it means that you must always assume the most simple and direct solution to a problem. For example, we have the case of Edwin Bartlett, an eccentric hypochondriac who was quite literally crawling with parasites, and a young wife who was revolted by him. He dies by drinking chloroform. Occam's razor in action: you killed him. What I wish to know is how you did it without him aspirating or inhaling it."

"Monsieur Holmes!" Adelaide lifted her chin. "How is it that you speak to me the way you do? Do you know who I am? I'm a _lady."_

"Not quite," he said. "Was it Margaret Thatcher who said that a woman who declares herself to be a lady is most definitely _not_ one? And yes, I know who you are. I know a great deal about you, in fact. I know you're a year older than your falsified birth records claim you are, that you weigh fifty-five kilograms and are allergic to an ingredient in most soaps - probably pentasodium pentetate. I know that you are afraid of cats, that you vote Tory, that you've been recently sexually active - with Edwin's brother - and that you have a calcium deficiency. More to the point, I know that you do not have schizophrenia, though you're the daughter of poor Claire Demotte. And on that note, I also happen to know who your biological father is."

She looked up at him sharply. "Then tell me."

"No, I don't think so." Mycroft shook his head. "Suffice it to say that he's _trying_ to help you, but your behaviour is making it difficult for him to do so. If you simply confess that you killed Edwin in despair at a loveless marriage and the hope of a fresh start without the scandal of divorce... well. We can help you. If you tell us how it was done, we have a a very good chance of arguing that you were temporarily insane at the time. But this obstinacy is only going to end in a guilty verdict and a life sentence, Mrs. Bartlett."

"My father-"

"Your father won't want to associate himself with such a scandal, so it would be _very_ irresponsible of me to reveal his identity at this time. Think about it. Make some effort at seeing sense, for heaven's sake." Mycroft got up. "I'll be back to speak with you tomorrow," he said evenly. "Forgive me for how brief this visit has been, but I wanted to give you something to consider overnight. I hope to find you a little less intractable after a night in here. Goodnight."

He went directly to the door, and did not look back at the forlorn woman on the bed.

* * *

Sherlock woke with a gasp into a room so dark that he wondered for a second if he'd been struck blind. After that second, he registered only two things: gut-wrenching pain, and the chilly flood of nausea that followed it.

He struggled against the tangled blankets, tumbling out of bed and onto the hardwood floor with a thud. Pulling himself free of the folds around his legs, he finally staggered into the adjoining bathroom, making it to the toilet just in time to heave.

_Oh my God..._

He slumped down onto the floor, which was a mistake. A jolt shot through him, bringing another round of vomiting with it. It didn't quite all make it into the toilet this time.

The pain was making him vomit. The vomiting hurt. This was not a cycle he was likely to be able to get out of on his own.

He shut his eyes against another wave of nausea, trying to remember where he'd last seen his phone... had he... yes, he'd sent another "I'm fine" text to John at around nine thirty and then put the phone on the bedside table.

Propping himself up using the splattered toilet seat, he struggled to stand, reaching for the shower screen for support, the towel rack, the doorframe. Here he stopped, swallowing down hard. Scrabbling blindly in the shadowy room, his fingers closed around his phone and he dropped onto the mattress. As he did, he realised for the first time that there were flecks of vomit on his shirt.

Unable to focus his watery gaze on the tiny touch-screen and fumbling at it with shaking hands, he started to navigate the phone book by habit.

* * *

John picked up his phone on the fourth ring. He sounded groggy; Sherlock wondered what time it was, but he was not wondering for long.

"Ten past one, Sherlock," John mumbled. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock paused, suddenly humiliated that he was calling John at ten past one in the morning to come out to help him. Ridiculous. _Really_ ridiculous... He heard a slight shuffle on the end of the line that sounded as if John was sitting up in bed. The change in his breathing pattern confirmed it.

"Hey," he said. "What's wrong? Are you feeling worse? I'll come out -"

"It's fine. It's... nothing." Another wave of nausea had started to build, and Sherlock had just realised he was clenching the phone receiver in his shaking hand so hard his fingers burned.

"Yeah, I don't believe you, sorry," John said flatly. "You sound terrible. I'll-"

"I _said_ it's fine." Sherlock gritted his teeth as more pain twisted at his gut. "I-I forgot how late it was... that's all. Case related. I'll - I'll talk to you in the morning."

"Sherlock-"

"I'll call you in the morning."

Before John could protest any further, Sherlock hung up on him. He threw the phone down onto the bed and pulled himself to his feet using the bedside table as leverage - then nearly collapsed as his stomach cramped viciously. He doubled over, sucking in a breath through his teeth and alternating between the desperate thoughts of _oh God this pain_ and _don't vomit on the floor._

The agony of walking to the bathroom was preferable over the ignominy - and mess - of vomiting on the floor, or on himself. He lurched forward, grasping at whatever came to hand; the bedside table, the door frame. For a few seconds there was nothing but empty space and the room swum before his eyes. And then the safety of the door frame under his white knuckles.

Hadn't fallen or passed out. So far, so good.

He was vomiting in the approximate direction of the toilet bowl when the phone on the bed started to ring again.

* * *

When Sherlock failed to pick up the third call, John swore gently to himself in the darkness and got up, fumbling around in the shadows for yesterday's jeans. As he was putting them on with one hand, and making a fourth attempt to call Sherlock's phone with the other, Molly stirred and sat up. Her soft hair tumbled down her shoulders and over her pale face.

"John-?"

"It's Sherlock," he said, picking up his watch from the bedside table and putting it on, then searching around in the top drawer for the spare keys to 221 Baker Street. "Something's wrong. I've got to go out there. I'm sorry."

"Will it be dangerous?"

"Not for me, no. I think he might need a trip to the hospital this time, though." John was now kneeling beside the bed, rummaging underneath for the medical case that he kept on hand in case of emergencies. "I don't know what he's got, but I'll bet it isn't diverticulitis. I'll call you as soon as I know what's going on."

At this convenient moment, both of them heard Charlie stirring in the nursery across the hall. John looked back at Molly, torn.

"It's okay," she said. "She needs to be fed, that's all. I'll do that now before she starts to fuss. You go to Sherlock."

"Are you sure-?"

"Yes. Go to Sherlock."

* * *

 _What an end for Sherlock Holmes,_ Sherlock thought to himself with a sort of passive delirium. _Survived the attacks of London's most evil criminal masterminds. Died on his bathroom floor from... whatever's causing this ungodly pain..._

He chuckled a little. Oh, God, the _irony_.

Back in the bedroom, his phone began ringing for the fourteenth time. Or he supposed it was the fourteenth time. After the ninth or tenth, his attention had wavered between the shrieking little machine on his bed and the pain that he couldn't handle any more.

_For God's sake, John, just make a deduction for once in your life and get over here..._

The August night was warm, but he shivered, drawing his arms around himself. The hairs on his arms were prickling up, and he wished he was wearing his dressing gown. There was no question of going back to the bed for it. Just the _thought_ of trying hurt.

_What if I'm dying?_

_That isn't helping._

The problem was that he was incapable of thinking of anything that _would_ help, or of doing it if he thought of it; his usually linear, eloquent thoughts were presenting as a series of exclamation marks. The room was spinning, and grey shadows were closing in on his vision. He rested his heavy head against the toilet seat, not caring that it was awash with pea-green bile and flecked with crimson blood. A shudder ran through him. He recognised it instantly. Not cold. Fever.

_Maybe if I can sleep... it might make it better...just need to sleep... few minutes..._

* * *

Sherlock had no concept of how long it was between when he laid his head down and shut his eyes, and when a calm voice permeated the fog.

"Sherlock...?"

He forced his eyes open. John was standing in the doorway, surveying the scene before him. It was much later before Sherlock, looking back, remembered that John had been _scanning_ the scenario, much in the same way that he himself would scan a crime scene -

He heaved again. A violent wave of pain followed, crashing over him and leaving him breathless.

"Yeah, I'm afraid you don't look very 'fine' to me," John said, crossing the floor and kneeling on the tiles beside him. Sherlock felt cool pressure on his forehead, then on both sides of his jaw as John gently lifted his head. "Come on, don't put your face there, it's not clean."

Sherlock felt the rough kisses of a wad of toilet paper scraped along his mouth and chin for a few seconds. He opened his mouth to say something logical and helpful and useful about the situation; what came out was a miserable little whimper.

"Yeah, I know you're in pain. We're going to get that sorted out..." Sherlock could feel John's warm fingers at his wrist. He slumped forward; firm hands caught him by the shoulders and held him upright. "Sherlock, you stay awake, okay?"

"Need to lie down," he slurred.

"No, you can't lie here on the floor," John said, starting to get up. "Hold onto me, I'll help you up."

"Can't..." But Sherlock had no choice. John was a much steadier support than he would have expected the smaller man to be, and helped him stagger the few feet out to his bed. Stricken, he curled up shivering on the mattress, his hot face half-buried in his pillow.

"There... that's an improvement on the floor, anyway." John sat on the side of the mattress. It sounded like he was lifting something, and then there was the soft click of the latches on his medical case being sprung open. "Just stay still for a second."

As miserable as he was, Sherlock was struck by a sudden memory. Three weeks after Moriarty had tried to kill him and John at the pool, he'd been sitting in the kitchen experimenting with copper wiring, which he'd been cutting with a Stanley knife. The blade had slipped off one of the coils of wiring and plunged into his thigh. He'd tried to stop the bleeding for almost ten minutes before being forced to conclude it wasn't something he could do on his own. He'd called up the stairs for John, who'd come down to find his kitchen and flatmate covered in blood. Sherlock had expected a meltdown: _you're a bloody idiot! Why the hell didn't you call me when this first happened? Have you got any idea how close that came to your femoral artery?_

John _had_ had that meltdown; it was the first time Sherlock had heard him use the word _fuck_. But first, he'd calmly and quietly stopped the bleeding while waiting for the ambulance to arrive. In fact, he'd got his stitched-up, pallid patient back to Baker Street and settled in the armchair with a cup of strong, sugary tea and a blanket before he'd even raised his voice.

Sherlock had initially thought that seeing John as Moriarty's hostage was the first time he'd ever seen him look afraid. He'd changed his opinion that day; John hadn't looked particularly afraid at the pool. He _had_ when he was sitting next to him at the kitchen table, pressing a towel down hard to staunch the bleeding wound and talking casually about some idiotic thing Harry had said on his blog the other day.

This was like that time. Only worse.

John was afraid.

"Just hold still and let me look, Sherlock." He was still very quiet. Sherlock, breathing through his pillow, braced himself, awaiting cold fingers.

" _Ow!"_ Involuntarily, his eyes flew open and he drew in a jagged breath. His first irrational thought was that John had dropped something onto his stomach. Something heavy. A brick... a cement block...

"Take it easy, I barely touched you," John said. "Where does it hurt the most? Right there?"

Sherlock nodded. He was biting down hard on his own hand.

"Okay." John pulled his shirt back down. "I'm going to call an ambulance."

"Don't _want_ -"

"Too bad. Something's seriously wrong, Sherlock. We need to get you to a hospital right now, and you can't walk. Move your arm a bit... there, keep that there." Sherlock felt a cold thermometer slid under his armpit; then John brushed his curls off his damp forehead with one hand. Still breathless with the sudden avalanche of pain, he felt hot tears stinging his eyes and clamped them shut defiantly. _I am NOT going to cry in front of John._

"Holding your breath won't help," John was saying, pulling Sherlock's hand away from his mouth and giving it a squeeze. "And neither will biting yourself... come on, don't do that. Take a breath... you're okay, Sherlock."

"I am _not_ okay!" Sherlock snarled at him. "I am _very_ not okay! I am the least okay I have _ever been in my life!"_

"You'll be fine. And yelling about it isn't doing either of us any favours..." The thermometer under Sherlock's arm suddenly bleeped and John retrieved it, then swore softly to himself.

"What? What is it?"

"It's high..." John stood up. "Stay still. Keep breathing and try to relax."

Sherlock heard John wander out into the hall. A half a minute or so later, his words filtered in and out of his mind in drabbles that didn't always make sense to him.

"Been down since last night, I think... vomiting... bloodstained bile... dehydration. Axillary temp is 39.3. He's been on Flagyl for the past nine hours... three doses... paracetamol, but I don't know when his - look, just get an ambulance here, okay?"

39.3? Sherlock foggily tried to remember the average body temperature of a man his size, but facts and figures were a lost cause, bouncing at random in his brain like captive insects. The next wave of nausea was brief and brutal; before he could even understand what was happening, he'd vomited again, splattering bile over the side of the bed and onto the floorboards below. John's voice, which had become vague and low again, suddenly hissed into clarity.

"Mycroft, I don't care where you are or what important thing you're doing, your little brother is being _rushed to hospital_ and you will be there-"

_Mycroft? Oh. Oh, no. No-no-no...!_

Gripping the edge of the bedside table, Sherlock dragged himself upright and then to his feet before the pain slammed into him like a speeding car. He cried out and sank back down onto the mattress just as John threw the door back open, phone still at his ear.

"I told you to stay still," he scolded mildly, urging Sherlock back down by one shoulder. "Lie down. Mycroft, are you hearing this? Is this enough incentive for you to tear yourself away from your precious work for one night? We'll meet you at the hospital."

And then John did something he'd never done to Mycroft Holmes before. He hung up on him.

"Okay," he said, upbeat. "Ambulance is on the way. Won't be long now. Now listen, I don't suppose you'll be back here for a while, so it might be worth throwing a few things together. Is there anything in particular...?"

"Mhhn," Sherlock grunted, waving in the direction of the doorway. "Strongbox. On the table..."

John frowned. "What?"

"My will." Sherlock took another jagged breath and curled his knees up to his stomach. "It's written out... but hasn't been..."

"Oh, for God's _sake_ ," John snapped. "No. You shut up about your will. You won't need to worry about it for fifty years, so stop being ridiculous."

"But..."

"Yeah, I know... I know." John's hand was cool on his forehead. "But you're definitely not dying, Sherlock. The ambulance will be here in ten or fifteen minutes, and I need you to be conscious when it does come - they'll have questions I can't answer. Hold on."


	9. Triage

Sherlock flinched and sucked in a breath; the wet flannel across his neck and chest was frigid.

"Just room temperature," John said from somewhere nearby. He'd just been on another call; judging from the fact that he'd terminated it with _I love you,_ there was no doubt at all that he'd told Molly he wasn't going to be home that night.

"Freezing," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

"I know it feels cold. It's because you're burning up. Keep it there." John went over to the wardrobe, pulling out an overnight bag from the bottom and then searching through drawers. "Did I tell you?" he asked cheerfully over one shoulder as he did so. "I was 'round at Harry's on Tuesday and who was there, do you think? Clara. I don't think I need to be... well, _you..._ to figure out that they're probably shagging again, at the very least. If Harry drops her again, I'm going to have to kill her this time. Um. Which pyjamas do you want to take?"

"Don't care..." Speaking hurt now. _Breathing_ hurt. Sherlock clutched the cool flannel in his trembling fingers, swiping it against his face. "'M'thirsty," he suddenly declared in a shaky voice.

"Too late, Sherlock." John returned to the bed and took his pulse again. "You can't have anything to drink now. You'll probably be taken straight into surgery when you get in. Oh, and I should tell you. Ambulance cases are usually a priority, but if you could also either vomit or faint in front of the triage nurse, that'd be _really_ helpful to get you to the top of the list- hey... hey. Take it easy. You'll be fine-"

"Shut _up_ , I'm not _crying,"_ Sherlock choked, screwing his streaming eyes shut tight again.

"Just a few more minutes, Sherlock. Traffic's pretty good at this time of night."

Sherlock processed this for a few seconds, listening to the sound of his own shaky, hitched breathing. "And you'll..." He swallowed and tried to keep control of his voice; God, he wasn't going to _sob,_ not in front of John or anyone else. "You'll... come to the hospital with me...?"

"Wouldn't dream of doing anything else," John said. "Mycroft's meeting us there - yeah, I know how happy you are to hear that. But they were going to tell him anyway, Sherlock, he's your next of kin. Best he heard it from me and not admin staff."

"What... what about Molly...?"

John had been fidgeting nervously, going over to the window to look out at nothing in particular; at this he turned back to Sherlock. "Oh, she's okay, Charlie hasn't had a screaming meltdown so far. I'll get someone over to help her in the morning," he faltered. "Harry or... I dunno, someone. And Mrs. Hudson will be back in London before lunchtime. It'll be fine, don't worry."

"I wasn't _worrying_ about Molly," Sherlock said. "I was -"

He was cut off by a knock on the door downstairs. Then the doorbell, which seemed to be in working order for a change, rang twice.

"Why do I feel like saying something about the cavalry? I've got to go down and answer that," John said. "Stay there. Keep still."

* * *

Mycroft's fingers twitched over the buttons of his waistcoat, quickly if not entirely accurately. A three-piece suit at a time like this? Well, John had never seen him in anything else. Even an idiot could deduce someone's state of mind by the way they were dressed. The second-last thing Mycroft wanted just then was for John to realise he most certainly hadn't been _working_ when his call had come in; the last thing he wanted was for John to see that he was concerned about Sherlock.

An unnecessary concern, he tried to convince himself. Sherlock was in the hands of a capable doctor, and en route to one of the best hospitals in London. There was really no better position for a sick man to be in... except, of course, if that sick man had a reliable diagnosis and a course of treatment that actually worked. Mycroft was not strong on medical knowledge. He did, however, know that the sudden deterioration of Sherlock's condition had taken John by surprise. And he'd definitely heard Sherlock vomiting and groaning in the background of John's call.

"I don't know when I'll be in the office in the morning," he said stiffly, still struggling with the buttons. _Bloody putting on weight again, too._ "You will need to hold up the fort until I return, of course. You have your instructions."

Stephen, who was watching him from the doorway in his pyjamas and bare feet, uncrossed his arms and went over to him, fiddling with the buttons on his waistcoat. Mycroft held both hands up, as if to push him away.

"No, I'm not being cute, Mycroft. You missed a few," Stephen told him patiently. "Is there anything I can do to help tonight?"

"No," was the cold response. "Nothing beyond the usual. I'll text you when I know whatever there is to know."

Mycroft had a feeling that whatever was going on, it was not something he wanted to be overheard discussing with Stephen on the phone in a hospital waiting room at three in the morning. People might talk- in fact, they usually did. Stephen pulled the waistcoat into place and then went over to the window.

"Car's arrived," he said, looking out. "Best not keep it waiting."

Mycroft was tucking his wallet into his left breast pocket; his response was a grunt.

"I'm sure he'll be okay, Mycroft."

This time Mycroft raised one eyebrow, but he still did not bother replying; instead, he opened the hall door and left Stephen, still in his pyjamas, standing there next to the sofa.

* * *

"Hey, Sherlock...? Can you hear me, mate?"

A voice Sherlock didn't recognise... definitely not John. John didn't call him "mate", and this was a rough, sandpapery sort of voice. Someone was shaking him. Shivering, he twitched his head toward the noise and opened his eyes. There was a middle-aged, bearded stranger looking back at him, frowning slightly in the dim backlighted room.

"John-?"

"I'm still here." John's measured, almost-cheerful voice seemed to come from the opposite side of the bed. "Temp's now at 39.4," he muttered in different tones. "I've been trying to keep it down with lukewarm water, but I think we're a bit past that stage. He hasn't literally lost consciousness, but I don't think he's been lucid by spells."

"Sherlock, I'm Russell," the bearded entity told him. The hard chill of a stethoscope touched his wrist. "This is Jane..." Jane was, so far as Sherlock was concerned, a vague, pale-coloured outline behind Russell and a brief feminine voice, nothing more or less. "We're paramedics... we're going to help you. Let's have a look at where the pain is, is that going to be okay?"

"No," Sherlock gasped, just as Russell pressed his cold palm down on his abdomen. He yelped and drew back, scurrying up against the head of the bed.

"I heard him say 'no' to that," John said quietly. "If you'd bothered to _ask_ , I could tell you I'd already done that, and they'll do it again at the hospital." Without waiting for a response he gently took Sherlock's wrist. "Okay, Sherlock," he said. "Take it easy. They're just trying to help you. No biting."

"... Biting...?" Jane repeated.

"Bit a dentist once. And I mean three years back, not when he was a kid..."

Sherlock didn't have the energy to protest that the dentist had _deserved_ to be bitten. He gasped into his pillows for what felt like ten minutes before he heard Russell's voice again.

"Sherlock, can I ask you, do you know who the Prime Minister is?"

John chuckled grimly. "Bad choice," he said, tapping his thumb on Sherlock's wrist as if to get his attention. "He doesn't know that at the best of times. Sherlock, what's the periodic symbol for Niobium?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw and drew in a breath, searching around in the back of his mind for a copy of the periodic table. "NB," he finally gasped.

"What's HG represent?"

"M- mercury..."

"And what's the symbol for Tungsten?"

"... W."

"Yeah, he's with it," John said. "Sherlock, they're just going to give you oxygen, okay? Don't fight it, just breathe into the mask..."

Sherlock felt the mask closed in over his nose and mouth; for a few seconds he held his breath, then gave up. John's hand was on his hair again.

"Let me help," he was saying to the paramedics. "I know what I'm doing, and he doesn't do well with strangers... that's just an ECG monitor, Sherlock," he said in louder tones as Sherlock flinched against the cold touch on his chest. "They're going to put in an IV for dehydration and then we'll get you straight to the hospital. Once we get there they'll look at giving you some pain medication..."

* * *

Sherlock later had no recollection of Jane inserting his IV, though he later found out from an unimpressed John that it had taken her four attempts. Nor did he have a memory of being shifted onto a stretcher, brought down the stairs of 221B and across the foyer, and put in the back of an ambulance parked on the kerb outside. His next coherent thought was _they've put the sirens on. Maybe I really am dying._

There was a warm hand curled around his.

"Is there anyone else you want me to call, Sherlock?" John was asking him calmly. "Lestrade, or...?"

He shook his head; the oxygen mask prohibited much conversation.

"Well, you've got excellent blood pressure." Russell sounded pleased; the restrictive sleeve he'd placed around Sherlock's arm suddenly loosened. "110 over 70. Any allergies?"

It was John who responded over the sound of the sirens. "None known, but he's an ex-addict, so watch it with the opioids... Sherlock, seriously, is the weight of the _blanket_ hurting you...? Yeah, I know... I know. You're not crying."

Sherlock pulled at the mask with his free hand, sliding it up. "Morphine," he gasped.

"Not yet," was the calm answer. The hand in his tightened, and Sherlock had a momentary flash of confusion, both that John was doing this and that he didn't particularly want him to stop.

"John, I _need_ -"

"Nope, don't start that. You _need_ to breathe into the mask." John gently put it back in place and squeezed his hand again. "Trust me, it's going to help. I know you're desperate, but you have to just hang on, okay? They can't diagnose you properly if you can't tell them where and how much it hurts. Nearly there. Five minutes."

* * *

Mycroft, stepping inside the Accident and Emergency department, did not have to put any deductive skills to work in locating Sherlock and John. The latter's voice, pitched high with stress, could be clearly heard from the waiting room. Flashing an all-access pass briefly to the duty nurse, Mycroft stalked back through the heavy swinging security doors and into the busy triage ward.

Looking around for a few confused seconds, he located Sherlock, on a trolley stationed in the middle of the long ward. The state he was in was starkly public, and Mycroft frowned. The only thing Sherlock would find more humiliating than being ill was being ill _in public,_ without even a bed curtain to shield his predicament from all and sundry.

But then, he noted in worsening concern, Sherlock did not seem in the sort of condition to really mind where he was and how many people could see him. He was lying twitching and restless under the rough hospital blanket. His face, partially obscured by the respirator mask, seemed the same colour as the pillow behind it. Forcing himself to slow his step to a less anxious pace, he crossed the floor toward them.

"What's going on?" he asked.

John startled; he apparently hadn't seen Mycroft until he'd spoken, even though the much taller man was right beside him by this time. He rubbed his eyes. "We need to talk. Somewhere a bit more private -"

From under the mask, Sherlock tried to protest; it was then that Mycroft noted that John's hand was in his. Extricating his fingers from Sherlock's, John drew the blanket up over him slightly.

"Two minutes, Sherlock," he said, swiping Sherlock's hair off his damp forehead. "We won't go far, and we'll be back in two minutes."

Sherlock, clamping his eyes shut again, gave a slight nod. John practically dragged Mycroft over near the windows and well out of Sherlock's earshot, dodging various hospital staff on the way.

"What's wrong with him?" Mycroft did not waste words when he was worried. "Tell me everything."

John rubbed his eyes again. Mycroft noted with no emotion that they were bloodshot and deeply shadowed; the man was quickly on his way to exhaustion.

"Look, I don't want to play passive-aggressive ping-pong with you today, Mycroft," he finally said. "Sherlock's in a bad way. I've got no idea what's wrong, but any undiagnosed and severe abdominal pain is considered life-threatening. I need you to help me get him the treatment he needs. Afghani hospitals are run more efficiently than this."

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, resting his weight on his heels. He was without his umbrella for the time being, and suddenly missed it; having nothing to do with his hands, he crossed his arms. "Have they not treated him at all?" he asked.

"They've taken blood and they said they're sending him up for a CT scan. The blood results won't be back for at least half an hour - probably two hours, in this place - and they won't give him a decent dose of painkillers until they get them. We can't wait for that. He's in agony."

"Surely there are other tests they should be doing on someone that ill..." Mycroft looked over at Sherlock again; he was lying in a fetal position with his hands tucked under his arms.

"Yeah, they should." John was scathing. "Apparently, they gave up on trying to convince him to give a urine sample... the nurse said she was going to find someone else to help her and that was nearly twenty minutes ago. Then they were _supposed_ to send someone to get him for the CT scan _ten_ minutes ago, and nobody's turned up yet. And even if they get him now... we don't have that kind of time. Vomiting bile is a bad sign. Vomiting blood is a _really_ bad sign."

Mycroft look at him in solemn silence for a few seconds. "What does he need, John?"

"He needs an exploratory laparotomy and he needs one _now._ As quickly as they can get him in there. I want a prep team and an anaesthetist on deck straight away."

"Yes, there's something else I want you to explain to me," Mycroft persisted, ignoring the impatient hiss that John gave. "These people are trained, experienced professionals, just as you are. So why are they refusing to perform a procedure that you consider vital?"

This time it was John's turn to cross his arms defensively. "There's always a risk in open surgery," he admitted. "Infection, mainly. Blood loss, shock. Frankly, you could die getting your tonsils out."

"How very reassuring."

"And a laparotomy is really just opening a patient up and seeing which one of their organs doesn't look right," John went on, ignoring Mycroft's remark. "Some doctors like to know beforehand what they're going into... and they're all still going with the party line that it's diverticulitis."

"And you disagree."

"I really, _really_ doubt it. If it were diverticulitis, it'd be responding to treatment, not getting worse. Anyway, his doctor is very likely to want to operate once the CT scans show what's _actually_ wrong, but..." He trailed off, taking a breath. "Look. I wouldn't be demanding this if I wasn't _right,_ Mycroft."

Mycroft pursed his lips, deep in thought. It was ludicrous to suppose that John Watson would ever act in anything other than Sherlock's best interests, but that didn't preclude his being honestly wrong. All of Mycroft's investigations into John's medical career indicated that he was a talented doctor, but he wasn't God Almighty.

"I went to school with the Dean of the College of Emergency Surgery, as it happens. He'd be most disappointed to hear about this."

"Good." John exhaled. "Because if begging isn't working on you, I could always threaten to go and tell everyone that Addie's father is the Marquess of Lothian..."

For three seconds, Mycroft was literally rendered speechless.

"Yeah, Greg was on the phone this afternoon to share the mystery around, and we figured it out. It's pretty obvious once you're looking for it - she's a dead ringer," John said. "But I don't think he'd thank me for outing him, considering he's challenging for leadership of the Conservative Party next month. Family values and all that."

Mycroft's pupils had narrowed down; a look that indicated danger might be ahead. "We'll discuss _that_ later," he said in a low hiss. "In the meantime, I'll speak with the head doctor on duty."

"Thank you." John exhaled again and shut his eyes.

Mycroft's face twitched; praise and thanks embarrassed him. "I doubt I'll be longer than five minutes," he said stiffly.

Still with that casual kind of saunter that seemed to indicate he hadn't a care in the world, Mycroft made his way over to the nurse's station. John, looking back at Sherlock, saw that he had feverishly kicked his blanket off and was sitting up, both hands clamped to his stomach. A young nurse was just then drawing the curtains around the bed. Seeing the hospital gown in her hand, he darted back over.

"What are you doing?" he snapped at her, trying to ease Sherlock back down by his shoulders.

"I'm trying to get him gowned," was her timid answer. "But he's being difficult..."

"He? He's got a _name_ ," John reminded her scathingly, aware that Sherlock was looking intently between them and not sure exactly how much of the conversation he could follow in the state he was in. "And if you don't know what that daft name happens to be, you're probably _not_ the right person to strip him down and put him in a hospital gown when he's got a fever of over 39 -"

"John..." Sherlock slurred.

"It's all right, just lie back, Sherlock." John turned to the nurse again and took the gown out of her hands. "Look, it's all right, I'll do it," he muttered, realising for the first time how aggressive he'd sounded. The poor girl looked like she was about seventeen and on day three of the job; a bit more of that and there might not be a day four. "He's too strong for you if he gets aggressive. Anyway, he'd be mortified at a strange girl dressing him. I'll handle it. He trusts me, and I'm a doctor."


	10. Surgery

"What're these bruises around his neck?" The anaesthetist, a pleasant-looking, fiftyish man named Andrew Quist, pulled the collar of Sherlock's hospital gown slightly with one finger. Sherlock, eyes screwed shut and breathing in pained bursts, did not do anything to stop him. "Nasty scratch on the face, as well."

"Long story," John responded, watching the process of rigging up the IV tubing as if he didn't quite trust that the man was doing it correctly. They were in one of the surgery preparation rooms by this time, so at least the state Sherlock was in wasn't visible to everyone who happened to walk by. "Let's just say they're probably unrelated to the problem at hand, and the police are aware of it." _Really should call Greg at a decent hour. Wonder how Molly's doing?_

"John-"

"It's okay, Sherlock."

"Where's Mycroft-?"

"He's back in the ward. You'll see him again when you're out of surgery."

"Mycroft?" Quist enquired genially.

"His brother."

"And you're his... partner?" Quist faltered slightly, evidently searching around for the correct terminology. John smiled wryly and held up his left hand.

"His extremely co-dependent friend," he said. "Well, actually, not really sure which one of us is the co-dependent one, me or him. But if I need to be his next of kin to stay with him... sure. I'm his partner."

Quist smiled. "Won't say anything."

"Thanks." John watched impassively as the milky propofol solution slid along the intravenous tubing. "General anaesthetic's going in now, Sherlock... you'll be out in ten seconds. Or probably twenty, because you're _you_. I'd tell you to count backwards, but patients over the age of six usually don't need that..."

"Anaesthetist as well?" Quist asked.

"Army doctor." John was rubbing his eyes again, noting gratefully that Sherlock's expression had relaxed and breathing had just deepened and slowed. "Propofol's used in the field, but I never wanted to muck around with it more than I had to."

"Ah well. At least we're not chloroforming people, like they used to do in the old days."

"That's true. And... he's out like a light. Honestly, knowing him, I thought you were going to have a _lot_ more trouble putting him under."

John sounded more relaxed than he had in hours. Mycroft was a pain in the arse, true, but Mycroft could and just had wandered over to the nurse's station and declared that if the hospital didn't want the Department of Health investigating every aspect of the ward's performance for the past five years straight, they'd better get an anaesthetist on the case immediately. When at last Sherlock was wheeled into the operating theatre, John resignedly went back out and found him sitting on one of the bench seats in the waiting area, phone in hand.

"Are you supposed to have that on in here?" he asked.

"Oh, for God's sake. You know as well as I do that my texting someone isn't going to cause someone's life support to malfunction," was the cross response. "How is he?"

"They've just taken him into the operating theatre now. Hard to say, but he's no worse, and they didn't have any trouble putting him under." John paused. "Who are you texting?" he ventured, glancing at his watch. It was ten past five in the morning.

"Despite the fact that they did comply with my orders, I'm afraid I'm having this department investigated anyhow," Mycroft muttered with a sort of grim, vindictive glee. "That it took my intervention for him to be taken into surgery at all is completely unacceptable. I'll have Stephen call Lord Winbourne when it's a decent hour..."

"Stephen," John said.

"Yes, my... my personal assistant."

John nodded. "Your PA. Okay. But you just called him 'Stephen.' _Last_ month you were calling him 'Hassell.'"

"I note that my brother calls you 'John,'" Mycroft retorted, putting his phone back in his pocket.

"And so do _you_ , unless you're trying to annoy me." John smiled; Mycroft rarely walked into a punchline that obvious. Poor bastard was obviously in knots about his brother and too proud to say so. "Look, I'm just saying it's been _noted_ , that's all. Considering you still call Molly 'Mrs Watson' most of the time. And it's fine, Mycroft. Everyone knows and nobody cares."

Mycroft crossed his arms. "Then why are you pointing it out?"

"'Cause I want you to know that everyone knows and nobody cares - except Stephen, I hope. Even _Sherlock_ hasn't been a dick about it, and you know what he's like, any excuse to take a low shot."

"Well, I'm glad you're amusing yourself, in any case."

"You know damn well I'm just making conversation 'cause I have to, so don't give me that." John sank into the moulded plastic chair two down from Mycroft, who was now looking at him with... Jesus, was that _sympathy?_ If this was Stephen's doing, John wasn't sure whether he wanted to take out a contract on Stephen Hassell or pay for tickets to Belgium for the pair of them to get married.

"Young Charlotte being difficult, I hear?" Mycroft offered stiffly.

"Uh, yes. Yeah, you could say that." John put his face in his hands for a few seconds, then looked across at Mycroft. "Have you ever wanted to have children?"

Mycroft pursed his lips. "I've considered it once or twice," he admitted. "After it became clear that my brother wasn't going to marry the girl of his dreams and raise a family. There's been a Holmes in the service of the British Government since 1720, John. When you're raised to value tradition, it's a sad thing to see let slip."

Charlie was, at present, the last of the Watsons; if the years to come didn't bring her any brothers, it was entirely likely that the family name would die out altogether. John nodded. "Yeah, I can see it. Still, I wouldn't, you know, regret too much."

"I don't."

"Good."

There was a very awkward silence for a few moments.

"Perhaps it might be best if you get some sleep," Mycroft finally suggested. "If you're unwilling to leave the hospital I can arrange for someone to find a trolley and a private room for you."

"No," John said. "There aren't enough resources as it is without me commandeering a room for a nap." He stood up, a little stiffly. "I'm going out to that other waiting area near the lifts. The chairs there are slightly more comfortable. Have someone wake me up if... um... something happens."

* * *

"Dr. Watson...?"

John opened his eyes. He was slumped over the armrest between two chairs; the first thing that hit him was the harsh fluorescent light, and then the raging headache he now had. Sitting up, he looked up at the nurse who had just woken him.

"What's happening?" he asked sleepily.

"Sherlock's in recovery," she said. "We can't find his brother, but he left instructions left that you were to be woken up when he came out and that you're able to go in and see him."

John was already on his feet by this time. _Trust Mycroft to not be around when he's needed. Again._ "How is he?"

"Physically, he came through well, and his doctor hasn't identified any immediate complications. But, um. He's having a bit of an adverse reaction to the anaesthetic, but that won't do him any harm..."

 _Dammit._ John knew exactly what _that_ meant, and was not in the least looking forward to it. Sherlock's worst nightmare was not being in charge of his own faculties, and Propofol was responsible for more recovery-room meltdowns than John cared to remember. "And did they find out what was wrong with him?" he asked.

"Yes. His surgeon's going to be in there in a minute to explain."

* * *

John entered the recovery room as furtively as a cat-burglar, but that was soon forgotten when he was hit by two sounds: Sherlock, incoherent, upset, muffled under a ventilator mask; and a nurse, loud, calm and imperious. "Mr. Holmes, you've had your appendix out and you're in recovery. You're all right, calm down..."

Looking across, John found the trolley stationed near the window; he hurried over. "He's had his _what?"_ he blurted out. The nurse - possibly the head nurse on duty, based on her uniform - gave him a rather cool glance.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"I'm John Watson," he said. "I'm..."

"Oh, you're his partner?"

John paused. He realised he'd instinctively gone for Sherlock's hand again.

"Sure," he said cheerfully. "I'm his partner. I'm also a doctor. He's had his _what_ out?"

"His appendix. It's quite common-"

"Not this time, it isn't... hey, Sherlock, come on," he said sensibly. "Come on, calm down... and I'm wasting my breath when he's drugged up to the eyeballs, aren't I? Do me a favour and tell me what side his surgical incision is on, please, Susan." He'd taken a stealth glance at her name tag.

Susan pulled Sherlock's blanket back slightly. "Well of course, it's on his r-"

She stopped.

"Bloody hell," she exclaimed. "Why's it on the wrong side?"

John was struck by a memory – Sherlock telling him how common it is to see but not observe, and how likely it was that Susan honestly _saw_ the wound dressings on Sherlock's right side until she was forced to observe that they weren't. Greg had once or twice said the same thing - something about how many witnesses he'd dealt with who "saw" things that never happened.

"I don't know," he said. "But the delay in diagnosis could've killed him, so I'd like his surgeon to hurry up and explain it... Sherlock, are you... oh, hell." He looked up at Susan again. "Is he in pain?"

"Not with the pethidine IV he's got, no. Or he shouldn't be. It's just the -"

"Doctor," John reminded her. "I know. Do you think we could take the mask off and see if he can breathe on his own? If he's delirious, having something over his mouth and nose might be making him more distressed." Without permission, John slid the ventilator mask off Sherlock's face, watching in concern as he slurred something urgent and incomprehensible, then took a few hitched breaths.

Yep. Completely off his head and not happy about it.

"Sherlock," he said, lightly holding his chin to get his attention. "Hey. Open your eyes."

Sherlock's wet eyelashes twitched and his eyes opened for a few seconds.

"Okay, that's a good start." John, hearing himself, wondered exactly when he'd become such a fantastic actor. "Sherlock, listen. You've had surgery and you're freaking out because of the anaesthetic. It's normal. You're going to be fine, okay?"

* * *

Mycroft, who had slipped downstairs to the all-night cafeteria for a much-needed cup of coffee while John had been sleeping, arrived back ten minutes later and found John was now nowhere to be seen. He was just making enquiries at the administration desk as to the status of his brother's surgery when he heard his name called. He turned his head; John had just come back from the eastern wing and was making his way over.

"John -"

"In recovery." John spoke on the exhale and sat down in the nearest chair, forcing the great lazy Mycroft Holmes to go over to him. "He'll be all right. He's not really conscious yet - in and out. Shivering a lot... bit distressed."

"Distressed?" _Oh, God, don't be pitiful, Mycroft. If there was something really wrong John would look-_

"Just the anaesthetic... it'll wear off. He fell asleep just now. I just came out to see if you were around. I should go back before he misses me."

Mycroft gave John three more seconds.

"John, are you delaying telling me what's wrong with him on _purpose?"_

John smiled grimly. "Maybe," he said. "It's a good one, Mycroft. Not even you and Sherlock combined ever thought it was going to be something like this. Were neither of you aware that he's got a birth defect called Situs Inversus?"

Mycroft frowned. "I'm... not familiar with the term," he conceded. "What is it?"

"It's rare. Nobody who operated had ever seen it in real life before. His internal organs are all flipped," John explained. "Spleen's on the right, liver's on the left, and so on. And something else was on the left. His appendix."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "Good Lord. Are they... sure?"

"They're incredibly sure, because it ruptured. He's lucky to be alive. And his CT scans are probably going to be framed and put up in the Dean of Medicine's office."

"I can only conclude from your tone that he's not in any danger."

"He'll recover." John smiled wryly. "Still, he's not happy, and he's got no reason to be. They're concerned about possible gangrene or peritonitis. He'll be in here for a week or so- and he won't be doing any detecting for a good six weeks, which I'm sure he'll be absolutely thrilled to hear." He chuckled, silly with relief and sleep deprivation. "Your _bloody_ brother, Mycroft. He can't even get sick in the normal way."

* * *

At first there was just a torrent of babbling voices around him. Sherlock opened his eyes; the room spun so violently that he shut them again and swallowed down on the urge to vomit.

_Where the hell... what..._

He flicked his tongue over his dry, cracked lips; it didn't help, since the inside of his mouth felt just as parched as the outside. He planted his palms into the mattress and tried to sit up; pain flamed up in his left side and forced him down again. He drew in a sharp breath.

"I'm right here, Sherlock." John was on his left; since that side was closest to the window and not the door, Sherlock confusedly had to conclude he'd been there in the room the whole time.

"John-"

"Nope, no talking. You're not going to make much sense anyway. Just rest. You'll be in your own room in an hour or so."

"But what -"

"The surgery went well, and you're going to be fine. Now lie down and go back to sleep."

"What was wrong with me?" he slurred.

"Something really interesting, something worthy of one of your investigations, and something I will tell you _all_ about when you wake up again and you're back in your own room. I'll be here the whole time, Sherlock. Sleep."

Sherlock, fighting a losing battle, gave up. As he sank down into what felt like a current of warm water, he was lucid enough to reflect one thing: John's "you're going to be fine" was the first time in all this mess so far that he'd sounded as if he meant it.


	11. On The Mend

"Seriously? What happened…?"

Melissa stirred and opened her eyes a crack. It was early – very early – no later than half-six, judging by the light coming in the bedroom window. What day was it, anyway...?

_Sunday._

It was way too early for a Sunday morning. Greg was on the phone, standing at the end of the bed in his boxers and in all his middle-aged, slack-paunched glory. She smiled to herself sleepily. The big, darling, insecure idiot would have a conniption if she mentioned he was starting to get little love handles. He had no idea how much she cared about him, even though it'd be two years together in December.

"God, is he going to be all right?"

She frowned. Is _who_ going to be all right? Greg looked worried. _Really_ worried. He met her gaze as she sat up and mouthed, _what is it?_

_Please, God, don't be Matthew._

"It's Sherlock." He cupped the receiver for a moment. "He's in hospital. John says it's his appendix – sorry, John. Having two conversations at once over here." Smoky jumped up on the bed beside him and he stroked her absently as he listened down the line. "So it was… hang on, how could it have been on the wrong side…? Okay, well, I'll take your word on that one. What do you want me to do?"

Melissa, trying not to huff, got out of bed. There was nothing for it. Whatever John wanted Greg to do, it was something he was probably going to need help with. Although she admitted that she bore Sherlock no malice – would even reluctantly admit to feeling some friendly affection for the endearing, insufferable bastard – she had to also grouchily reflect that he couldn't even get _hospitalised_ at a civilised hour for everyone.

* * *

"When can I go _home?"_

This childish little performance was the direct result of some _clot_ of a nurse telling Sherlock all about his adverse reaction in recovery. Inwardly, John was furious about it. There was no need to tell _anyone_ they'd been a crying wreck under those conditions, let alone blurting it out to the proudest man in Britain.

… Maybe the second proudest. The proudest had just gone on another search for coffee and was obviously counting down the minutes for Stephen Hassell to get onto Lord Winbourne about an investigative rampage in the A&E department.

"Sherlock, you asked me the same thing sixteen minutes ago." John glanced at his watch and pulled Sherlock's blanket up slightly. "And also seven minutes before that. The answer's still the same, and it's going to be the same next time you ask, too. You can go home when you're well enough to go home."

And that was certainly not going to be for a while. Sherlock had by this time regained his mental capacities and his composure, and been moved from the recovery unit to a private room. But he was white-faced and weak, and obviously having a lot more pain than he was prepared to admit to. John, glancing him up and down, wondered whether the hospital gown was making him look more fragile than he was, or whether he'd lost weight again without him noticing.

_Might ask his doctor how he stacks up against the BMI._

"That isn't a proper answer," Sherlock complained hoarsely. He'd absolutely refused to be positioned anywhere that he couldn't see what was going on around him and was propped up in an almost-sitting position. At least, John reflected, he wasn't actually trying to get up and wander around anywhere. "Whose idea of 'well enough' are we using?"

Trust Sherlock to slur _grammatically_.

John glanced up at the whiteboard that hung above Sherlock's bed. "Dr. Grantham's, it seems," he read out. "Look, just use your common sense. You need to have a normal body temperature for a start, and…" he got up briefly from his chair by Sherlock's bedside and plucked his patient chart from the bottom of his bed. "Your last reading was an hour ago. It was 38.7 then. You have a serious infection, Sherlock."

"That's hardly my fault."

"I don't care whose fault it is, you won't be sent home with a temperature that high… hey. Leave that alone."

Sherlock had feverishly started picking at the IV taped to the back of his left hand.

"It itches," he complained.

"Yeah, you've probably got a mild allergy to the tape." John had sat back down again. "I'll get them to use a material-based one next go. Anyway. You need to finish that course of IV antibiotics and kick down that infection. Your digestive system needs to be back up and running normally. You also need to be cleared of any possible complications, have manageable pain levels, and take yourself to the bathroom and back with minimal risk of passing out and cracking your head open on anything. In the land of miracles, it'll be two or three days. Realistically, it'll be five days to a week."

"That's _ages!"_

John decided not to tell him how long it would be before he'd be off jumping off buildings and chasing down buses again. _That_ bad news could wait, and so could the discussion about exactly where Sherlock was going to spend his convalescence. Baker Street was out of the question. Sherlock couldn't be trusted five minutes on his own in the flat; he'd die of boredom, if some crazy experiment didn't kill him first. And Mrs Hudson wasn't going to be up and down the flat stairs all day nursing him.

"Sherlock, come on," he said gently. "You _know_ you're not well enough to go home."

Sherlock, lying limp against his pillows, took a shallow breath. "The... the case..."

"Yeah, the case can wait. Your health is more important. Edwin Bartlett will still be dead while you recover."

"I hate hospitals."

"No, you hate being a _patient_ at hospitals." John was looking at his chart again. "Everybody does."

"Well... I hate it more than everyone else. Water."

"'Please' wouldn't go astray," John reminded him. "And you can't, sorry. You're on nil-by-mouth until tomorrow. You can have ice… Sherlock, listen." He stood up. "I know you're not in the mood for a lecture, so I'm going to keep this brief. I don't know how much of this patient chart will mean anything to you, but _I_ understand it, and it's serious. You could have died."

Sherlock looked up at him sulkily, but said nothing.

"And, might I add, you could have died because you didn't ask for help when you should have," John continued. "I'd appreciate it if you looked at me while I'm talking to you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's gaze was now wandering over toward the open door. He sighed and looked back at John again with some effort, but still did not speak.

"You must have been in agony all day before things finally erupted like that," John said.

"I went to the clinic, like you asked me to."

John shook his head. "I didn't _ask_ you to. I _made_ you, after you collapsed in my bathroom... which was shortly after you lied to me about being in pain and nearly dropped Charlie."

"I _said_ I was sorry about that!"

John blinked. Sherlock had slurred his apology about nearly dropping Charlie while they'd been in the taxi on the way to the urgent care clinic; since he'd never mentioned it again, John had assumed he couldn't remember apologising at all.

"Did it ever occur to you that we were more worried about you at that moment?" he asked. "And Sherlock, if I had any idea the _amount_ of pain you were in, I would never have allowed you to leave that clinic, and raised hell to get you a hospital bed. If you'd spoken up earlier, you'd be here overnight and back at work in a week, so forgive me for not being more sympathetic. You scared the hell out of me. _Never_ do that again."

Sherlock was silent for a few seconds. "Agreed," he finally said. "And when do - what are _you_ doing here?"

John didn't need to turn around to work out that Greg had just appeared in the doorway. He had a weighted laptop bag over one shoulder and seemed upbeat, despite the early hour.

"Just back from picking up your landlady from the station. You're welcome," he said, coming over to the bed. "I take it from your cheerful, friendly tone that you don't really want the notebook and phone I picked up from the flat?" He put them on a nearby chair, then passed the phone to Sherlock, who grasped at it like a greedy child.

Lestrade glanced at John. "You look awful," he said, but it was unclear which man he was speaking to.

"How encouraging you always are," was Sherlock's acid response, weakened slightly by the fact that he was now distracted with his phone.

"How's Mrs. Hudson?" John asked, wondering if Sherlock had gone right back to researching the Bartlett case again. He was still clumsy with the anaesthetic, and growled in frustration that his fingers apparently weren't doing what they were told.

"She's fine," Lestrade said. "Bit tired from her trip and worried about everyone's favourite consulting detective, but you know what she's like. Wasn't all that impressed to find Sherlock's stomach contents all over the upstairs bathroom, but I'm afraid I didn't offer to help her clean it up. She'll be in to see you this afternoon, Sherlock, if you're feeling up to it. She sends her love."

"I don't want Mrs. Hudson's love," Sherlock muttered. "I want to go home."

"Oh, God, so do I," John said wearily into his hand.

"You go," Lestrade muttered to him. "I've got nowhere else to be right now. Mel's at Baker Street."

John looked at him, torn between inclination and duty. "He'll drive you up the wall, Greg…"

"Yeah, well, my turn." Lestrade shrugged. "I did cope with him for five years before you'd ever heard of him, John. And Mycroft coped with him before that – and don't tell me he's not around, 'cause I caught him having a smoke outside when I was on my way in."

"I'm right here," Sherlock reminded them both. Lestrade glanced at him for a second.

"We'll be fine," he said. "I'll call you if you're needed."

"No, you won't."

"Okay, how can I put this better?" Lestrade crossed his arms. "Go home before I _arrest_ you."

"… On what charges?"

"… On charges of resisting an order from a senior police officer, and for generally being stubborn and annoying. Go home."

* * *

The house was quiet and still when John slipped in the front door just over half an hour later. John, not quite believing his luck that he hadn't walked in on another one of Charlie's operatic performances, fed the cats their breakfast and then ducked over to the fridge for his own. He made himself a slapdash sandwich and a cup of tea, savouring the silence for a few minutes.

Fast asleep. The snuffles over the baby monitor in the living room were a dead giveaway.

"Hey, get down," he muttered as Toby jumped up on the counter beside him. He hoisted the disgruntled tabby onto the floor again. "You know you're not allowed up there. Been holding up the fort without me, then, you useless lump of a cat?"

Toby slid up against his legs. Or rather, he bumped straight into them. John caught a gentle hold of his tail for a second, just to annoy him. Casper he _liked,_ but Toby was… Toby. He was special, no matter how much John addressed him as "useless lump" or "bloody cat." Like Molly, he'd refused to allow John to push him away after… all that had happened.

After rinsing his breakfast dishes and leaving them to drip-dry, John went upstairs. He opened the nursery door, pausing for a second before going softly over to the cradle. Charlie was lying asleep on the mattress, dressed in a little white pinafore, her arms flung above her head. Having a chance to look at her in repose, he saw for the first time that she was losing that scrawny newborn look; she was all chubby cheeks and dimpled elbows and knees. Blonde hair that had started to grow rampant. And she may well have been able to scream at the decibel level of an Airbus, John reflected, but then, she had healthy lungs, and they should be grateful for that.

Well, they could be grateful for that while she was _sleeping_.

She also, much to her father's amusement, 'talked in her sleep.' John smiled at the little murmurings that were so much like Molly's nocturnal conversations with herself, then left the nursery door open a crack and crept into the bedroom. Molly was curled up in bed, apparently fast asleep, even though it was now past ten-thirty. He quietly shed his jeans and slipped into the bed beside her. She stirred.

"Everything okay?" she murmured. She was facing away from him, and he moved her soft hair aside to kiss the back of her neck.

"He's fine," he said. "Or will be. We'll talk about it later. How was Charlie?"

"Better than normal," she said. "Fell asleep all right. She'll be up again soon, though."

"Back to sleep, then… it's okay, I'm not going to bother you for sex." He slipped one arm around her waist and kissed her shoulder. There was silence for half a minute; he assumed she'd fallen asleep again, and was on the verge of sleep himself, when she spoke up softly.

"John?"

"Mmm?"

"Do you think, maybe later, you could… bother me…?"

He smiled to himself, drawing her closer and kissing her shoulder again. "I don't think that will be a problem."


	12. The Investigation Continues

At half-past four that afternoon, John and Molly returned to the hospital with Charlie in tow. The first person they came across was Mycroft, who was loitering outside near the nurse's station.

"Why haven't you gone home?" John demanded, quickening his step. "What, is he worse?"

"I've been home," was the dry response; seconds later, John realised that Mycroft was wearing a different suit than he had the night before. "Well, I've been to the apartment." Linwood was too far out of London to be a practical base when Mycroft was working; there was a swank penthouse in the city he used for this purpose, though John had never seen it and wasn't sure where exactly it was. "I was there for most of the day, and only came back an hour ago so that Detective Inspector Lestrade could go home."

"That's very obliging of you," John remarked, and he wasn't sure himself whether he was being snarky or serious. "And Sherlock…?"

"Still on nil-by-mouth and in a lot of pain, but Dr. Grantham assures me that he's recovering as well as expected… and how terribly rude of me. It's good to see you again, Molly," he said pleasantly. John smiled to himself. The jab about "Mrs. Watson" the night before had obviously made an impression, but Mycroft sounded deeply uncomfortable addressing Molly by her first name.

"Hello," she said brightly.

"And this is young Charlotte, then?" Molly had Charlie in her arms.

"Yes," she said. "Oh, have you never met her before?"

"I don't believe I have." Mycroft had seen John on a few occasions since Charlie's birth and Molly once or twice, but this was almost always at Baker Street.

"Oh, well, you're lucky she's in such a good mood right now." Molly smiled. "She's not always."

"So I've heard. She's a great deal like her father, and perhaps in more than just looks." Mycroft glanced at John.

"Yes," Molly agreed contentedly. "Yes, she is. Maybe you'd like to hold her for a bit…?"

John braced himself, waiting for the expected _no-no-no_ reaction and hoping Molly was rested and happy enough to not take it personall. He knew that a few of Sherlock's protests over holding Charlie had hurt her feelings. But Mycroft shrugged. "Certainly."

_Certainly?_

Well, he _had_ said the night before that he'd once contemplated having children himself, John conceded, watching Molly hand Charlie over and hoping against hope that finding herself in the arms of a stranger wouldn't provoke a screaming meltdown on Charlie's part. She'd already reacted as such to Melissa three times and counting in the seven short weeks she'd been alive.

No screaming. From anyone. Excellent. Now if Charlie could desist in spitting up breastmilk all over Mycroft's extremely expensive three-piece suit, all could be called a success. John put his hand on Molly's shoulder.

"Just going in to see Sherlock," he muttered to her, leaving them in the corridor and tapping on the open door of Sherlock's hospital room before entering a little intrepidly. Sherlock was lying propped up slightly against his pillows; John half-expected him to have his phone or his laptop fired up and in full investigative mode, but he had nothing in his hands and was looking a little absently out the window at the blue sky beyond.

"Hi," John said carefully. "How're you feeling?"

"Hayfeverish," was the cross response. Sherlock had never suffered from hayfever, but if he was inclined towards it, the enormous floral bouquet sitting on his nightstand would surely have triggered a sizeable attack.

"Mrs. Hudson's been in, I see," John said with a straight face. "Cheer up. The faster you get better, the faster you can accidentally break the vase and throw them out."

"That doesn't seem like a process I can hasten." Sherlock was still looking out the window, and John frowned.

"Well, you can certainly help it along," he said. "It probably won't feel as long as you think it will, Sherlock. And today's the hardest day, so once you're through with it, you're on the way up again. Unless your notes have changed, you're slated for an easy liquid diet tomorrow…" he looked up just as Mrs. Hudson herself came back in with a jug of water evidently meant for the flowers.

"John, how lovely to see you," she said warmly. "Did you bring...?"

John was never going to allow Mrs. Hudson to be "burdened" with too much of his daughter's company, but that had never stopped Mrs. Hudson from trying.

"Oh, yeah, they're both out there somewhere. I'll take that..." He took the jug from her and went over to water the flowers. "I was just saying that Sherlock's going to be able to eat something tomorrow. Do you think you could bring in soup for him?"

"Yes, of course," she said. Sherlock scowled, even though Mrs. Hudson's chicken and leek soup was a favourite of his. "You'll be grateful to avoid the nasty hospital food, Sherlock, especially after what the nutritionist said this afternoon…"

John frowned and put the jug of water down on the bedside table. _"What_ did the nutritionist say this afternoon?" he asked. "And keep in mind, Sherlock, that half the hospital already thinks we're in a civil partnership, so if you lie to me-"

"She said I'm underweight."

"I'm not surprised. And I don't think you're surprised, either. What else did she say?"

This time Sherlock paused, and John resisted the urge to nag him not to pick at the IV tape on his hand. "She wants me to gain three kilograms before I leave the hospital," he finally said.

John exchanged a concerned glance with Mrs Hudson. "Okay," he said slowly. "Can't hurt. If she weighed you today, you're probably still a little under with the dehydration. It shouldn't take you long to put the weight on if you actually, you know, eat."

"And thus you see the difficulty. It's unfair to tell me to put on weight... and then forbid me to eat today..."

"Well, what was your excuse for these past six months, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson scolded. "A grown man like you, and you can't even tell somebody when you're feeling poorly, or feed yourself without someone watching to make sure you do it. Sometimes I wonder if it might be better if you moved back in with your brother after all, so he can keep an eye on you."

"You'd miss me," Sherlock reminded her.

"Well, I certainly wouldn't miss cleaning the upstairs flat, young man. The _mess_ you made, it was quite- and oh, _here's_ my favourite girl..." Mrs. Hudson suddenly chirped. Mycroft and Molly had just appeared in the doorway, and she hurried over to take Charlie out of her mother's arms. "Come on, you dear little thing, come over and say hello to your poor Uncle Sherlock..."

"I can't hold her, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock announced, sounding pleased that he finally had a legitimate excuse for it.

"Hasn't stopped you from working," John remarked, seeing the pile of papers on Sherlock's bed-table and his phone lying nearby. "Case?"

"Yes."

"Anything new?"

"Of course not," Sherlock huffed. "Because I'm stuck _here_. I keep thinking there's something I've missed, John- something _big_. Something that may not have anything particularly to do with Adelaide Bartlett and her little psychiatric act. But every time I think I'm onto something…" he trailed off, putting his fingers on one temple. "I lose it. And it's driving me mad."

John decided not to tell him that it was probably the painkillers. The last thing Sherlock needed was to refuse pain medication to sharpen his intellect. He looked at Mrs. Hudson again. "You know," he said, "you could bring in some ice cream tomorrow, Mrs. Hudson. I'm sure that'd go down a lot better than watery hospital souffle."

"I don't want ice cream," Sherlock mourned. "I want to go home."

* * *

After returning home from the hospital, Lestrade had crashed in bed for an hour and a half; a marathon nap for a man who rarely slept during the day. Not even the knowledge that Dyer was downstairs with Hayley helped to ward off such a heavy sleep. He was woken again by his phone ringing. After a bleary-eyed scrabble on the bedside table, he picked it up and tried to answer as energetically as possible.

"Hi, it's me." Sherlock's tones were unmistakable. "You need to interview the doctor, Ralph Inglis."

"Yeah, we are." Lestrade sat up with effort. "Tomorrow. We've got an appointment with him for-"

"If it's any later than first-thing, move it forward. There are questions we need answers to as fast as possible, Lestrade, before the psychological moment for them is over. In fact, if I thought there was any chance at all that you'd comply, I'd ask you to interview Inglis tonight."

Lestrade picked up his watch and peered at it. It was just after five-thirty.

"Not this late in the day," he said. "Not unless I precede it with something like 'you are under arrest.' Suspects don't usually like their Sunday TV-watching being interrupted by the third-degree over a murder. Anyway, what questions need answering?"

"Have you got a pen?"

"Yeah, give me a second." Lestrade got up and started searching in the bedside drawer for notepaper. "You owe me for this one, Holmes. You really do."

"Yes, fine," Sherlock said absently. "Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Are you writing this down now?"

"No, because you haven't told me what to write yet, smart-arse."

There was a slight pause on the line, as if Sherlock was taking in Lestrade's response and appreciating it. "Okay," he said. "Write this down exactly as I say it, then read it back again exactly as you've written it…"

* * *

"Poor sod," was John's commentary on the situation. It was later that night; he'd not long before left the hospital for the second time that day. He and Sherlock had been forced to call off an evening's internet investigation into the Bartlett case when Sherlock had grown too weak and sore for it, and his pain medication had been upped slightly before John had left. This in itself was not a real cause for concern, but it indicated even further that Sherlock's chances of leaving the hospital before a week was out were frankly slim.

"But he's being well cared for, isn't he?" Molly ventured. They were sitting on the sofa, and she was curled up into his side; Casper was dozing on her lap. The television was on, but neither of them had been paying much attention to it. On the mantelpiece, the baby monitor faithfully sent through Charlie's placid cooing to herself.

"Oh, yeah, of course. Mycroft wouldn't have it any other way. But I don't think he really understands just how sick he is, and he hates hospitals."

"Everyone hates hospitals."

"Yeah, but it's a close call who hates being a patient more, him or me," John said.

Molly winced. She had unpleasant memories of just how much _John_ hated being a patient, anyway. "Well, if he needs to be there…"

"Yeah. That's what I keep telling him. He actually had a bit of a point about recovering quicker at home, but there's no way he'd cope with pain levels like that at home. Anyway, they're still on the lookout for peritonitis."

He made an impatient movement, and Molly nestled further into him in support. She knew that _he_ was still on the lookout for peritonitis, regardless of what Sherlock's treating doctor thought. "Has he been out of bed yet?" she asked, teasing Casper by rubbing his pink nose.

"Not yet. That's first thing tomorrow." John grimaced. "I'm going to try to be there with him for that. The last thing he needs is to make another nurse cry."

"… Another one…?"

"Oh, didn't you hear about that? That was this afternoon's work. All she was trying to do was get a second IV line set up when the first one collapsed. There was no need to tell her that her boyfriend was cheating on her with her aunt-"

He looked up as his mobile started to ring from the kitchen bench. Molly sat up and let him get up to answer it.

"Sherlock," he said by way of an answer. "Everything okay?"

Molly picked up the remote control and turned the television to mute.

"Yeah... okay, so... oh come on, it's not the end of the world... no, it isn't. I know it's not glamorous, but it's supposed to happen… what _about_ him?"

There was a long pause on John's part.

"Hang on, hang on. Let me write this down…" He fumbled at the kitchen bench for a pen and started scribbling on the back of an electricity bill. "Mm… yep… okay, yes, I've written it down exactly, Sherlock. I'll let Molly know… do you seriously need this information tonight? It's half-past nine… so we can't call anyone to babysit this late, that's 'so what'… no, what you're asking for is almost an actual autopsy, and one person couldn't in a million years…" He covered his eyes with his hand for a second. "Sherlock, I'm serious. Does this absolutely, one-hundred-percent need to be done tonight?"

Molly waited.

"I will consult with the better half," John said long-sufferingly. "If she says no, then the answer is _no_."

* * *

"I can't believe we're doing this," Molly whispered. She and John had just made it to the end of the shadowy hospital corridor and she stood looking around nervously, as if expecting to be 'caught out' at her own place of work. "What if-"

"Oh, it'll be fine." John fumbled with the keys to unlock the morgue door. "You're the one who agreed to it, even if it _was_ to shut Sherlock up. And anyway, we're allowed to be here."

"It's not _us_ I'm worried about..."

"Mum used to take me and Harry to work with her all the time when we were little, and we turned out okay."

"Your mother was a librarian."

"That's not the point." John held the door open so that Molly, with Charlie strapped to her chest, could go through first and turn the lights on. He wasn't nearly as familiar with the Barts morgue as Molly. It was probably a quicker and easier process to just let her handle most of this than make too many clumsy, misguided attempts to "help" her. He had Charlie's wicker carry-basket in one arm; once the lights were on he looked around.

"Over here okay?" he asked, pointing to a spot on the floor.

"I suppose that's as good enough place as any. I don't like her being on the floor, but I know what sorts of things people put on the counters in here..." Molly unstrapped Charlie while John fussed with the blankets in the basket; finally she laid her down among them. "There we go," she cooed, playfully jiggling her foot for a second. "Good girl. Now you sit quietly for Mummy and Daddy while we work, okay?"

The response was a serious, thoughtful stare. Charlie still wasn't smiling for Mummy.

"Which one is he?" John was looking at the shining wall of refrigerated storage drawers.

"2D." Molly checked her paperwork. "Dead three days."

"Oh, great. No wonder Sherlock was itching for us to get this done tonight. Well, at least he's been in the cooler." He was thinking about Bartlett's tapeworm infestation.

"And the full autopsy's already been done?"

"Yes. Sherlock just wants us to take a second look at his mouth, oesophagus and trachea."

"And stomach contents, according to this…" She flipped the page on her clipboard. "But they've already been removed, so there should be no real reason for us to disturb the main abdominal cavity at all."

"I'll take what we can get…" John had located the right drawer; he gently tugged at it, then moved the tarp aside slightly and checked the toe-tag on the corpse within. "Yep. This one's him." He started to pull the drawer out. "Right, well, let's get this over with. I'd like to be in bed before midnight, if that's possible."

"Not likely, sorry. You scrub in, I'll prep him." Molly had already donned her lab coat and was washing her hands. "I still feel awful that we've got our daughter lying on the morgue floor, John."

"She won't even remember it… and it'll be a great story to tell her one day. Look at her, she's fine. I guess if we keep talking..." John gave a soft, high whistle. "Char-lie," he said in a sing-song voice. "We're still here... won't be long. We just have to make a quick incision -"

"Oh, John, don't talk her through it!"


	13. An Offer

Sherlock stirred his mushy, lukewarm porridge around with his plastic spoon. He'd decided that there was only one thing more unfair than ordering him to put on weight and forbidding him to eat: ordering him to put on weight and giving him nothing except this repulsive _gruel_ to eat.

He glanced up at the clock. 7:50am. Well over an hour before Mrs. Hudson was going to show up with something more palatable.

_Ugh._

"How are we feeling, Mr. Holmes?" The morning duty nurse, a chirpy woman in her early thirties, had just popped her head in the door. Sherlock threw his spoon down petulantly.

"No, I can't eat this," he announced.

She clucked her tongue and came over to the bed. "Oh, dear," she said, in the sort of condescending way that put Sherlock's teeth on edge. "Not feeling well?"

"I feel _perfectly_ well," he snapped, even though he was in more pain than he'd been in the night before and was tempted, before her remark, to ask her for more pethidine. More nausea, too, but that was probably the inadequacy of what was sitting in front of him on the breakfast tray. "If I'm to be putting on weight before I'm released, you're going to have to provide something more appropriate than this muck."

She picked up his chart from the end of the bed and glanced at it for a few seconds in silence. "I'm sorry," she said, and sounded it. "You're on a restricted diet for today."

"So?"

"So there's really nothing else on the breakfast menu that you're allowed to have, except tea and juice."

Sherlock snarled helplessly, throwing the blanket onto the floor and promptly regretting it as pain gouged at his side. He drew in a sharp breath, guarding the padding over the incision with one hand.

"Look, there you go, you've gone and hurt yourself." The nurse was urging him to lie back against his pillows. "I'm sorry about the porridge. I know the food around here is awful, but there's really nothing else I'm allowed to give you."

Sherlock, feeling the cool damp of sweat prickling up around his temples and hairline, looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath. John was an early riser by habit. He would be up and active by now…

Then he was struck by another consideration.

Flinching in more pain, he leaned over to the bedside table and picked up his phone, flicking hastily through the address book and putting the phone to his ear.

"Are you-"

He held a finger up to silence the nurse as he listened down the line for a few moments. "Mycroft, it's me," he announced. "… I'm fine. No, actually, I'm not fine. I'm _starving_. For God's sake, I need something edible and I need it _now..._ I'd do it for you… yes, I would… Mycroft, if I starve to death it's going to be entirely your fault… _"_

* * *

'Now' wasn't possible; however, forty-nine minutes later Mycroft arrived on the scene bearing a green hemp shopping bag on one arm.

"So you haven't starved to death yet?" he asked sourly, putting it on Sherlock's bed-table and opening it. Sherlock propped himself up a little more, alert and sniffing like a terrier.

"Did you bring-?"

"The last time you demanded strawberry milk, you were six years old," Mycroft commented, bringing the carton out and handing it to his little brother.

"It was also the last time I had surgery, as I recall. Tonsils." Sherlock was fumbling urgently to open the carton, as if he couldn't wait another second longer. "Did you bring the yoghurt?"

"Yes."

"And the chocolate?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Yes."

"Excellent." Sherlock stuck the straw in his mouth; it really had been thirty years since he'd last demanded strawberry milk, and the flavour took him aback for a few seconds. _Is that really what strawberry milk tastes like these days…?_ Still better than hospital porridge, though. He swallowed hard, then grit his teeth.

"What's wrong?"

Mycroft never missed a trick.

"It's fine," he said as soon as he had a hold on the nausea that had just flooded up into his throat. "Just… drank it too fast, that's all."

"You're supposed to be _gradually_ getting back to normal, Sherlock."

"I'm _supposed_ to be putting on three kilograms," he retorted. Nonetheless, he put the carton down on the table and leaned back against his pillows, taking as deep a breath as he comfortably could. "I need you to do something else for me today, Mycroft," he continued ungraciously.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You seem to assume I'm going to have both the time and inclination."

"You _should_. I'm sure it's going to be more interesting than your usual business. I need you to go to the Bartlett house and look around."

"The police have already done that."

"The police aren't me."

"Neither am I."

Sherlock paused for a few seconds. "I _despise_ you for making me say this," he said slowly. "But no, you're not me. You're... better than me. You see more, and you see it faster. You can also stop smirking, because I'm not saying this to boost your self-esteem… as if it needed any boosting. This crime is growing colder by the hour, Mycroft. There isn't time for me to get out of here before I can go and look myself. If everything has to be on hold for _weeks_ , we'll never solve the murder, Adelaide Bartlett will probably be put on trial because of the circumstantial evidence, and you, brother, will not be popular with the French…" he looked up as the duty nurse came back in.

"What do you want?" he asked her ungraciously.

"Time to get up, Mr. Holmes." She smiled broadly, as if expecting Sherlock to be rapturous about the prospect. Instead, he looked at her in shocked silence for a few seconds.

"What? No."

"Yes. You need to get up and moving as soon as possible, and you've been cleared to get up to the bathroom and have a shower this morning, as long as you're careful not to get the dressings wet."

* * *

"Ow!"

John, exiting the lift a few minutes later, quickened his step toward the doorway of Sherlock's room. He found him standing at the end of his bed, clinging to the foot-rail with one hand and petulantly flicking away his nurse with the other. Mycroft stood looking on near the window, arms folded.

"What's going on?" John demanded.

"John," Sherlock got out. He was sweating and white-knuckled. "They're making me walk and it _hurts."_

John, remembering similar ventures in mobility after being shot (both times), was not smiling. "Yes, it does," he agreed. "Pneumonia and deep-vein thrombosis hurt worse. Hold up. The more you walk, the less it'll hurt."

" _You_ said that pain is a sign that you should stop doing whatever hurts," Sherlock retorted, exhaling with a shudder.

"Yeah, I did say that, but physical therapy is different," John said. "Come on, you don't want to be supervised in the shower, do you? Or worse, a sponge bath? 'Cause I'm not doing it, and I'll bet a year's pay Mycroft's not doing it - so it's going to be a nurse you don't know."

"Yes, that would be me," the nurse agreed placidly. "And you've already told me four times how much you hate me, Mr. Holmes."

John rolled his eyes. "We'll talk about _that_ later, Sherlock. In the meantime, you need to move. Just a few steps."

"Did you go to the morgue?" Sherlock demanded, ignoring the look on his nurse's face.

"Yes, last night."

"And?"

"And I'll tell you what Molly thought once you've had a shower and you're feeling a bit more normal."

Faced with the impending news, and the very real possibility of being sponge-bathed by the perky young rose-cheeked nurse he'd been doing his best to ignore, Sherlock shuffled forward for a few painful steps. Finally he was close enough to the bathroom doorway to reach out for the door frame. He turned.

"You can kindly stop staring," he said, though it was unclear whether he was speaking to John, Mycroft, the nurse or all three. "And _don't_ hurry me. If I had to make such effort to get here, I'm going to take full advantage of it. And no, I do _not_ need to be supervised."

Once Sherlock had slammed the bathroom door shut, John glanced across at Mycroft. "I could tell he wasn't going to like that much," he said. "I just hope a decent hot shower will put him in a better mood. Mrs. Hudson will be here in an hour. She doesn't need to put up with that." He stifled a yawn into his hand. Mycroft raised one eyebrow.

"Difficult night with Charlotte again?" he enquired.

'Charlie' was so deeply ingrained that John took a second to work out who Mycroft was referring to. "Oh, she wasn't that bad," he said. "Only woke up twice. If we could get her to stop screeching like she's being murdered when she does…" he shrugged.

"While Sherlock is otherwise preoccupied," Mycroft said, "I was intending to go to the cafeteria for some coffee. I suppose you could do with some?"

John looked at him, suddenly wary. "Mycroft," he said. "The only time you _ever_ invite me to have coffee with you is when you're on one of your stupid power kicks and want to try to bribe or threaten me into doing something. So which is it this time? Bribe or threat?"

"Neither," Mycroft responded innocently. "Though as it happens, there _is_ a matter I'd like to discuss with you away from certain eavesdroppers…" he glanced toward the bathroom door, behind which the shower was running at full pelt.

"Oh my God," John groaned, putting his face in his hands for a second. "Fine, okay. Let's get whatever it is over and done with, shall we?"

* * *

But Mycroft wasn't prepared to let John know what was on his mind- at least, not until the moment he chose. They'd got to the cafeteria and were sitting at a table, mediocre cappuccinos on the table in front of them, before Mycroft drew something out of his inner jacket pocket and silently passed it across the table to John.

John took it, looking blankly at the rectangular piece of paper in his hand.

"It's a cheque," he said.

"Well spotted."

"Made out to me."

"Yes."

"For _ten thousand pounds,_ Mycroft."

"Yes."

John fixed Mycroft with an obstinate stare until he sighed and shut his eyes for a moment.

"Happy birthday," he said at last.

"Yeah, my birthday's not for a fortnight. You know that. And you gave Sherlock a watch for _his_ birthday, and it wasn't worth ten thousand quid." John leaned back in his chair. "Come on. What's this about? Done something you know I won't like, trying to buy me off again?"

"Not at all. I do owe you a great deal, however. Dr. Grantham told me yesterday that she's sure if Sherlock's surgery had been delayed by two or three hours, he would have died."

"That's not a reason to give me this," John countered. "You've never put a price on your brother's life before now. And I don't think I need any extra incentive for not letting Sherlock die on his bathroom floor, just because his appendix inconveniently ruptured at one in the morning-"

"John-"

"No, this is something else." John shook his head. "Something else you need to _explain_. What do I want with ten thousand quid? I'm waiting to hear it."

"And you will, if you'll let me get a word in edgewise," Mycroft said, with just a hint of ice in his voice.

John subsided, but Mycroft seemed in no great hurry to begin. He stirred his coffee thoughtfully for a few seconds.

"I was ten years old when Sherlock was born," he said at last; an unnecessary detail for a man who knew most of the details of Sherlock's early life. "Our father wasn't even in the country at the time. I was told that he was in Milan on business. I was fourteen when I learned he was actually in Majorca with his mistress."

"Bastard," John commented.

"Rather." Mycroft clinked his spoon against the side of the cup. "I've no inclination to go through all of the man's transgressions as a husband and father, but suffice it to say that by the time I discovered the truth, I wasn't particularly surprised. And I suppose you have this image in your head of Sherlock and me growing up among innumerable servants hired to cater to our every whim?"

John considered this. While he knew that the Holmes were wealthy, Mycroft had a point - he couldn't remember ever hearing Sherlock refer to a cook or a maid or a nanny… just one babysitter. "Well, it goes with the territory, doesn't it?" he asked.

Mycroft shook his head. "Our mother had odd notions about doing things on her own- servants were not part of her upbringing. The Devereaux family are artists and intellectuals and freethinkers, but they don't have a lot of capital." He shrugged. "Given our father's predilection toward philandering, she was also probably against giving him too many opportunities to do so with female staff. Or so I've always gathered. They were married for twenty-two years, but I don't think he was ever faithful to her."

"Okay, just where is this going?"

"It was only after our mother died that I realised how severe her post-partum depression was when Sherlock was born." Mycroft was stirring his coffee around again. "I do have vague memories of her before that. She was different then… never exactly a jovial woman, you understand. Not in her nature, and she had a very demanding government job that took up a great deal of her time. Clever woman, indeed. But not maternal. After Sherlock, she… well." He shrugged. "She never really recovered. And I can't help but feel that she may have… had a better relationship with both of us if her condition had been recognised and treated promptly. But we didn't know. _I_ didn't know."

"Of course you didn't know, Mycroft. " John said gently. "You were only a kid. You think Molly's...?"

"I think it's a possibility that is better prevented than repaired," Mycroft said stiffly, looking down at the cup on the table. "When I saw her here yesterday, I saw a bewildered and socially isolated young woman who has no confidence in her ability to care for her child."

"Hey-"

"And I have no doubt at all that you are doing your best for her in that regard," Mycroft spoke over the top of John's protest. "But the events of this week alone should be a demonstration that you are only one man, and your area of expertise is not in cognitive therapy."

John looked down at the cheque in his hand again. "So this… is money to send Molly to therapy?"

"I believe it's called 'Parents Counselling', and it would do you good to go with her." Mycroft took a sip of his coffee and handed across a small green and white business card. "As a matter of fact, I think it may be a requirement of the service. I've used the services of several therapists at this particular clinic before, for various reasons. I can vouch that they are professional, discreet and effective. But they are also expensive. That should cover six months, by which time I hope that Molly is a more confident and happy mother."

"Mycroft… come on." John folded the cheque and held it back out to him. "I can't take this. This is a _lot_ of money…"

"'A lot' is relative."

"You just got done telling me the Devereauxs aren't rich."

"They aren't. The Holmes's are, and I have a comfortable income in my own right. Harley Street is the best in the country, but it also carries a price tag of one hundred and sixty pounds per session."

John did a quick calculation. "Then I need half of this," he protested.

"You have a sister-"

"Oh, no." John shook his head and slid the cheque over to Mycroft's side of the table. " _No_ , Mycroft. I wouldn't have Clara pay for Harry's rehab, _you're_ certainly not paying for it."

"You seem to believe that you're the sole arbitrator of who should and should not pay for your sister to get well."

"She _is_ well," John protested. "She hasn't had a drink since Charlie was born."

"No, she hasn't," Mycroft agreed. "Or at least, she hadn't when last we met. But surely you're aware that there is no such thing-"

"No such thing as an ex-alcoholic, just alcoholics who are on or off the wagon," John recited. "I know. I've heard it a hundred times. Look… I really appreciate this, Mycroft. I mean, I do. But Molly and I are hardly paupers, so we don't need charity. You want to talk about how we were brought up? Well, _I_ was brought up to not take cheques from people, even if they _are_ filthy rich. I think if you… hey, are you literally walking away from me?"

Mycroft had pushed his chair out and got to his feet. "You know what they say about gift horses, John," he remarked over his shoulder as he put his hand out for the cafeteria door. "Though I suppose I should be grateful that you didn't hit me this time."

"Mycroft-"

But Mycroft was gone; the door shut with a heavy thud and a jingle of door-chimes behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know the ACD stories had seven years between Mycroft and Sherlock… but the ACD stories also had Harry as a man. Since there's no BBC info on the age difference, I made it larger, to reflect their relationship and visual age difference.


	14. Dr. Inglis

DI Lestrade may have employed the help of Sherlock Holmes over the years, but there was one thing he was confident of on his own: he could spot a liar at a hundred paces.

He didn't always know _why_ someone was lying, or what the truth of it all was, but the fact that a lie was being told rarely escaped him. Just something about the twitch of a lip, or an unblinking stare, or too much blinking, or the movement of someone's thumb. Lestrade was not used to self-analysis and would never have been able to work out on his own _how_ he knew someone was lying, but it was probably innate and had been honed from years of experience. The Holmes brothers could work their way around him, but few others ever had. Hayley had told him her first serious rigmarole at the age of twelve; she hadn't even _finished_ telling the lie before she found herself realising what a lost cause it was and confessing to it.

And while CSI and the other crime shows that filled weekday television may have claimed otherwise, Lestrade had been a police officer for thirty years, and this he knew: generally speaking, criminals were idiots.

Most of them didn't even _try_ to avoid being caught. Ted Bundy, for example: considered the classical 'clever' serial killer, the sort of murderer people made movies about. But he prowled for his victims on the crowded banks of a lake – on a public holiday - by driving a bright gold VW Bug right up to them and announcing loudly, "hi, my name is _Ted_." Then there was Peter Sutcliffe, the Yorkshire Ripper; he went driving around a known police checkpoint with a prostitute in the front seat of his car, false plates on the outside, and a hammer, knife and rope in the back seat. Then there was Dennis Nilsen, who kept his corpses around for company - when the decay got too bad, he flushed bits of them down the loo and was _shocked_ when it buggered up the plumbing for the whole block of flats he lived in.

Idiots.

James Moriarty had been different, but James Moriarty was dead.

So Lestrade was confident that if Ralph Inglis lied to him, he'd know, whether Sherlock Holmes was lying in a hospital bed or not.

The young doctor - according to Lestrade's notes, Inglis was thirty-two – arrived at New Scotland Yard promptly on time, or a little before. The downstairs reception called through to Lestrade's phone and he went out to the main open-plan office area. Dyer was sitting at his computer, and he whistled to get the young constable's attention.

Dyer looked up, as eager-to-please as a spaniel. "Sir?"

Lestrade beckoned with three fingers. "Want to help me interview a witness?"

Technically, Ralph Inglis was not a suspect. Or rather, technically _everyone_ involved in the Bartlett case was still a suspect, including Bartlett himself. Like John, Lestrade wasn't convinced it was definitely a homicide.

"Sir."

There was only one suitable thing to do with an eager-to-please spaniel, and that was to take it for a walk and give it a bone to play with.

* * *

"You can ask me the same question a million times, but you'll get the same answer every time," John was telling Sherlock just at that moment. As promised, now that Sherlock had showered and dressed and brushed his teeth, he was regaling him with the findings of the night before.

"I want your answer to be correct, not necessarily consistent," Sherlock told him.

"And it's both. It was unanimous on that one, and both Molly and I know what we're talking about. Absolutely _no_ residue in his trachea. Very small traces on the inner parts of his lips and on his tongue. Traces on his oesophagus. Stomach contents were nothing but bile, aspirin and chloroform."

"And absolutely _nothing_ else?"

John shook his head. "No, and that's odd," he said. "Unless someone had been recently starving him or something, you'd think there'd be _something_ else there…"

"No signs that he _was_ starved?"

"No, I wouldn't think so. Malnutrition, yes, but he wasn't underweight and there were no signs of systematic starvation over a long period. Mind you, having tapeworm wouldn't have helped... Oh. There was also about a hundred mils of water in his stomach, but he obviously had that with the aspirin."

"Which means he died _well_ before Addie claims to have found him at one that morning."

"Yep… probably at around the same time he took the aspirin, I'd say... nearly four hours before she said she found him. She might've been lying about everything else, but she was probably telling the truth that his toe felt cold."

Sherlock contemplated this in silence for a few moments. "You're absolutely _sure?"_ he persisted.

"Yes. Both of us were, and both of us will continue to be no matter how many times you ask the question, Sherlock. _Suicide_. That Bartlett took the chloroform voluntarily is the only thing that fits the medical evidence."

* * *

"Dr. Inglis."

"Ralph, please."

Lestrade winced. He hated this buddy-buddy stuff with his suspects, but if Inglis wanted to be addressed by his first name, there wasn't much he could do about that. The man sitting opposite Dyer and himself in the witness chair was a fresh-faced, pleasant looking man, all blue eyes and rosy cheeks and, so it seemed, nothing but middle-class wholesome morals. Dark hair clipped very short. Designer stubble. The sort of pretentious berk that usually put Greg Lestrade's hackles up.

"Ralph," he corrected himself. "I'm glad we could talk, finally. We've intended to have a chat with you for some time, but things came up. Quite a lot came up, actually."

"How is Addie doing?"

Lestrade frowned for a second. _Addie?_ Quite an intimate name for her doctor to address her - but then, hadn't she asked _him_ to call her Addie when he'd interviewed her the other night? Still, might be worth chasing that one up. He scribbled _Addie_ in his notebook.

"Haven't heard this morning," he said in an offhand way, hoping Dyer would be able to hide his own surprised expression, or at least shut up about it. "She's still being remanded in psychiatric care, which it sounds like she very much needs."

"God, the poor woman," Inglis mused. "I mean, it must be horrible for her to be on her own at a time like this. I can't even imagine being locked up in…" he trailed off.

"It's for her own good." Lestrade was stone-faced. "By all accounts she's very unstable… attacked several of my colleagues the day before yesterday, two of whom were left bruised and bleeding. And, of course, she's just lost her husband."

No sign on Inglis's face that this had ever really occurred to him before. Obviously, not too many of his friends and family mourned the passing of Edwin Bartlett.

"How long have you known the Bartletts, Dr- er, Ralph?"

"Four years," he said readily, nodding his head as if convincing himself of it. "Though I didn't really know Ed very well."

"You knew him well enough to call him Ed," Lestrade remarked.

" _Everyone_ called him Ed."

Lestrade shrugged. Beside him, Dyer was diligently writing down shorthand at a rate of knots. "So you know Addie Bartlett 'well', then," he said. "Should I take that to assume that you knew her in a non-professional capacity?"

"We were friends," Inglis admitted guardedly.

"But you're not friends anymore?" Dyer pointed out the tense before Lestrade could stop him. "I mean, she's not dead, Dr. Inglis."

Inglis looked at him for a few seconds in silence. "I care about Addie," he said bluntly.

"Yeah, it sounds like you do," Lestrade decided to go with Dyer's tactics for the time being- after all, Inglis seemed to be responding to them. "Are you sleeping with her?"

There was a stony, shocked pause for a second or two. "No," was the offended answer.

And that, Lestrade reflected confusedly, sounded an awful lot like the truth. He shrugged.

"No offence meant. From what we hear, she was sleeping with a few people, and Edwin wasn't one of them," he said. "Did you know anything about that?"

"Why would I?"

"Answer my question, and I might think about answering yours."

Inglis chewed on his lip for a while. "I can't betray the confidence of a patient. It's against the law."

Lestrade nodded. "Okay. But you know full well I'm just going to go and get a court order requiring you to answer my enquiries. I'm also going to get a search warrant and have a team go through every single _inch_ of your place and your car with a fine-toothed comb. Your choice. Easier if you just talk."

Inglis sighed heavily, glancing up at the security camera for a split second. His hands were on the table in front of them, and he clasped them hard. "Yes, I knew," he said. "She confided in me that Ed had never consummated the marriage, and that as far as she knew, he had no intentions of ever doing so."

"Did she say why?"

"Some odd notion he had that sleeping with her would demean her. He had… some bizarre ideas about sex."

"Yes, I've heard." Lestrade tried to keep the contempt out of his voice. "But he wasn't jealous of who Addie was sleeping with?"

"No," Inglis said readily.

"Wasn't jealous of your friendship with his wife?"

"Not at all. We spent a lot of time together…"

"The two of you? You and Addie?"

"And Ed too, sometimes. In fact, a year ago he told me if he was ever to die, he'd like me to marry Addie and look after her."

Silence. Lestrade mulled this over, not sure of what to say. _Let Sherlock think the implications of that one through._ "Unhappy marriage?" he asked finally.

"Oh, quite the opposite. They seemed _very_ happy," Inglis said. "Oh, of course, Ed was a horrible hypochondriac and that kept Addie on the hop. Se spent a lot of time nursing his imaginary illnesses. But he seemed to settle down as long as she had some silly 'remedy' to give him that he believed worked."

"And what was that?"

"Various things. Herbs, you know. Homeopathy, that kind of thing. I'm sure Addie once said he thought cancer could be cured with garlic." Inglis sounded disdainful. "The last time I saw them together was when I'd dropped in on Sunday night… Ed had borrowed my camera and I'd come to the house to collect it. They seemed normal. When I came in, Addie was saying that they'd just agreed they wished they were unmarried, so they could have all the fun of getting married again."

"How romantic," Lestrade remarked dryly. "Did you know she was sleeping with Tim Bartlett?"

Another pause. "Yes," was the sulky reply.

 _Someone's not a happy camper about that state of affairs._ "And how did you feel about that?"

"I couldn't have cared less."

* * *

"Mycroft's going out to take a look at the Bartlett place tonight," Sherlock was saying, giving half of his attention to John and half to the strawberry milk he was still trying to finish. John watched him clutching the pink carton in some amusement. Pink was really not Sherlock Holmes' colour.

"Well, I suppose since you can't get out of here-"

"I want you to go with him."

"Why? The police have already looked there," John objected.

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Sherlock sounded peevish. "I _know_ the police have already looked there. But haven't we established that they don't really look properly? I'm absolutely sure that the place will yield clues for those who stop and _look_. And if I were able to get out of this hospital, I'd go and look myself. You know that."

John sighed, leaning back in his chair. "This is going to involve housebreaking, isn't it?"

"It's a locked-up crime scene. Of _course_ it's going to involve forced entry." Sherlock was now searching for something on his phone, though details weren't likely to be forthcoming any time soon. "You needn't worry about the police catching up with you when you're accompanied by the British government. In fact, I imagine it'll be an easy job for both of you."

"Well, that's the other thing. Why does Mycroft need _me_ around?" John wanted to know, folding his arms defensively. "You know he's capable of looking around without my help."

"What sort of a genius," Sherlock wanted to know haughtily, "goes housebreaking without a lookout?"

* * *

"About this chloroform…" Dyer was pretending to look over his notes. Lestrade, watching, thought he recognised a few of his own interview gestures and techniques in there, and smiled to himself. "We know it was you who bought it. And where. What I'm curious about is _why_?"

Inglis glanced away for a few seconds. "I use it in the lab," he explained.

"What lab?"

"I have a lab in my back shed," he said. "I'm an amateur chemist as well as a doctor. That's not illegal. You can come and have a look at everything, if you like. I use chloroform as a solvent, mostly to extract substances from plant matter."

"So you didn't, for example," Lestrade interrupted, "give the chloroform to Addie to use when Edwin demanded his marital rights?"

The young doctor's mouth dropped open. "No!" he exclaimed.

"She said you did."

"Well, she's a liar!"

"Okay," Lestrade said in cool tones. _He's certainly doing his best to put her squarely in the dock. Push comes to shove, and this guy would probably accuse anyone and everyone to weasel out of responsibility._ "But the fact remains that we know it was you who bought them. Why four little bottles, from four different online sites?"

Inglis looked at him blankly.

"Well, it's just that I checked out the first site last night." Lestrade flicked his pen against the table. "They were selling six _litre drums_ of the stuff. Bargain prices. So why did you buy four 50ml bottles from different retailers? Bit inconvenient, wasn't it-? Not to mention more expensive."

"Is that illegal?" Inglis asked in quiet defiance.

"No, but procuring them to poison a man is," Lestrade remarked. "By the way, copping an attitude with me isn't going to do you any favours. I'm two minutes away from cautioning you."

Inglis looked back at him and said nothing - the look of a man who knew the second he opened his mouth, whatever came out was going to be exposed as a lie. Lestrade scribbled down the facts for Sherlock to mull over and changed tactics.

"Okay," he said. "Pretty obvious you're not keen on explaining _that_. We'll go back to that later. So tell us, how did all four bottles end up at her place, with her prints on them, and Edwin's prints on them, and no evidence at all that _you_ so much as breathed near them?"

"I don't know," Inglis said sullenly. "I suppose she took them. She was at my house a couple of days before the murder. I took her to the laboratory to show her some experiments I was doing on Aconitum-"

"Monkshood?" Dyer broke in.

Inglis nodded.

"That's one god-awful poisonous plant you were playing with, Dr. Inglis," Dyer remarked, and Lestrade bit his tongue. While Jake needed a few lessons on a poker face and an appropriate tone during an interview, he was pretty sharp. Lestrade had no idea what Aconitum was, even if it _was_ called Monkshood.

"Yes, it is," Inglis agreed, a little icily. "But considering neither Ed nor anybody else got poisoned with it, what's that got to do with the price of tea in China? I was showing Addie the extracts I'd got from some of the blooms I'd been working on that week. I didn't watch her the whole time she was in the lab- I was looking into a microscope for part of the time. Maybe she pocketed the chloroform then."

"But you can't say for sure?"

Inglis shook his head. "No. I don't keep a running inventory of my lab- I'm usually the only person in it, and I live alone- but I don't think I remember seeing the chloroform after that day…" he trailed off as there was a sharp knock on the door.

Lestrade, knowing that no one in his team would interrupt an interview in progress unless it was important, bid whoever it was to come in. Sally Donovan opened the door, looking slightly frazzled, one arm outstretched on the handle to hold it open. "Sir…"

"Can this wait, Donovan?"

She shook her head, black ringlets bouncing. "Afraid not, sir. I need to speak with you…" she glanced at Inglis. "In private."

Lestrade also glanced back to the young doctor. He was weighing up whether it would be responsible to leave him uncuffed in Dyer's company. Donovan was still looking at him in mute urgency.

"We'll take five minutes," he muttered to Dyer, then pulled his chair out, stood up and followed Donovan out into the corridor. She'd barely walked him earshot-length away from the interview room door before he changed tones entirely. "What is it?"

"Sir, homicide have just been called in to a residential street address in Enfield," she explained in an agitated staccato. "Neighbours found a man's body garrotted in the kitchen."

"… And?"

"It's Timothy Bartlett, sir."


	15. Crime in Progress

"'You sure you want me in on this?" John asked, politely but with a definite note of hostility in his voice. "After all, I've got no clearance to be here, and I'm a loose cannon, apparently."

He and Lestrade, who had picked him up directly from the hospital as per Sherlock's request, had just arrived at Tim Bartlett's house in Enfield. The tidy little red-brick place was roped off with police tape, and there were a number of PCs in uniform milling around on the front path.

"Fine, do as you like." Lestrade shrugged and folded his arms. "You've made your point. I've made mine. You can tell Sherlock that…" he trailed off as his phone rang, fishing it out of his jacket pocket. "Lestrade."

Listening down the line, he frowned deeply and wandered away a few paces to speak to whoever it was. John utilised the time to call Molly, who picked up after two rings.

"Hi, it's me," he said. "Just checking everything's okay?"

"It's fine," she responded. John did not note the pause in between those two words. "She's not asleep, but she's sort of… talking to herself."

"Did I wake you?"

"Sort of."

"Sorry. I'll let you get back to it. I should be home in a couple of hours." John didn't mention the housebreaking venture he and Mycroft Holmes had planned for that evening. "Did you want me to bring something home for lunch?"

"Okay."

"Anything in particular?"

"You can choose." She yawned.

"Okay, I'll let you go…" He was poised to end the call with the usual: _I love you. Bye._ Something stopped him at the last second. "Lolly," he said, "if you were… I mean, if you needed me home to help you and Charlie, you'd tell me straight, right?"

"Yes, of course."

But John _had_ noted the pause before she'd spoken.

"Okay," he said hesitantly. "'Cause I think we both know I'm not all that great at taking the hint sometimes. So I'm… just checking." The word conjured up the cheque for ten thousand pounds that he still held in his wallet. "I'll let you sleep now, but my phone's on. Call me if you want me, okay?"

"Okay. Love you."

"Love you too."

As he hung up the line, Lestrade wandered back, putting his own phone in his pocket. "Before I tell you what _that_ was all about," he said, "are you actually in on this, or did you just come all the way out here to snark at me about what happened with Addie Bartlett?"

John looked compliant and unclenched his hands, but said nothing. Lestrade shrugged.

"Okay. That was Mel. When Addie was told that Tim Bartlett was dead, she had a screaming meltdown and she's had to be sedated."

John blinked. _"Sedated?"_

"Apparently she started wailing and smashing her head against the floor."

* * *

" _Non, monsieur!"_

Mycroft took a deep breath and gathered up every scrap of self control he possessed in order to not roll his eyes. It was easy to see that Adelaide Bartlett probably got her violent temperament from the man who had raised her since the age of six… if hiring a governess to look after her every need and then packing her off to a boarding school in Provence for nine years could be considered "raising" her.

And perhaps, he reflected, perhaps the Diogenes Club wasn't the right place to have a noisy confrontation with an angry diplomat who was really being anything other than diplomatic. Certainly, he'd managed to guide the elderly Frenchman into one of the few rooms available where speaking was allowed in the Club. But there was a great deal of difference between being allowed to speak in that room, and being allowed to histrionically shout in the way La Tremoille had been doing for the past seven minutes and counting.

"You are, of course, free to make the application to have Mrs. Bartlett extradited to France," he said, slowly and with great care. "I can't stop you, and I'd have no inclination to try even if I were able. I'm merely telling you that the chances of Mrs. Bartlett being deported are extremely slim, considering her permanent residency in the United Kingdom and the fact that she remains a prime suspect in a murder which is becoming more and more high-profile."

"This is outrageous," La Tremoille fumed. "I don't care what the British do. In my country, we help the mentally ill, we don't send them to gaol."

"She's not in gaol," Mycroft countered calmly. "She's in hospital, which has been deemed the most suitable place for someone who is so obviously mentally disturbed. And she did not… allegedly… murder her husband in your country, but mine. In my country, we don't deport murder suspects in such a fashion. Certainly not until justice has been meted out."

" _Monsieur, mon_ -"

"I'm afraid I'm temporarily unable to understand French. Do oblige."

The French Ambassador looked at Mycroft for a few moments with a combination of wonder and frustrated fury. Mycroft, looking back at him and calmly sipping a cognac, reflected that this may have been one of the first times in La Tremoille's life that anyone had ever proven impervious to histrionics designed to get him his own way. Too bad, the older Holmes reflected, too bad he had no idea that he was dealing with an expert in grown men throwing tantrums.

"Your brother was supposed to be dealing with this case," La Tremoille said bitterly.

"Yes," Mycroft agreed. "And he is, so much as possible, considering that he's in hospital."

For a few seconds, he enjoyed the look on La Tremoille's face.

"I'm sorry to hear that," the older man finally said, chastened. "I hope it's not serious."

"It is." Mycroft sipped his drink again. "Ruptured appendix. He'll recover, but as you can imagine, solving the murder of Edwin Bartlett may very well not be a priority for him just now." He neglected to mention that it had become more of a priority than ever for the terminally bored Sherlock. "But rest assured, he has delegated authority to the best people available to him in this matter."

Because if La Tremoille knew that he, Mycroft Holmes, was planning on rifling through the crime scene that very night, there was no doubt at all that there'd be hell to pay. Clear conflict of interest; or at least, it would seem so to a man who assumed Mycroft had personal feelings about the cases he occasionally investigated.

* * *

"Urgh, God," John groaned, pausing in the kitchen doorway. Before he'd even spotted the body of Tim Bartlett, he was assaulted by the smell – blood, urine, vomit, faeces. It had been a long time since he'd seen a battered corpse in an enclosed room.

The man he'd seen alive and well at Baker Street just days before was now lying face-down on the floor, barefoot and clad in a pair of dark green pyjamas of a light, airy linen weave. His hands were tied behind his back with thick wiring, so tightly that there was dark blood about the wrists, and the wire, makeshift ligature he'd been killed with had sank into the flesh at his throat so deeply that it was almost invisible. His dark hair was matted with blood and stuck out in clumps from the back of his head. Around him, the room was in chaos; there was a broken chair lying nearby and a sugar bowl and two cups were lying smashed on the floor. There were gouges in the countertop and the sink had a deep, bloodstained dent in it. Tim Bartlett had fought hard for his life.

"The neighbour who called 999 told the dispatcher that his throat was cut," Lestrade offered, seeing John's reaction and knowing what it meant. "And I guess it sort of is, but she didn't see the ligature at first."

John glanced over the scene, looking along the floor and walls for the tell-tale arterial blood spray and not finding it. "But it must have sank in after he was dead," he said. "And that must've been, what, at least ten or twelve hours ago? He's as stiff as a board. Can we roll him over?"

Erin Platner was on forensics; she gave approval for the body to be moved, and she and her assistant rolled the dead man onto his back.

"Shit!" John took a step backwards. He'd quite forgotten that someone who'd been violently strangled could be expected to be bleeding profusely from the eyeballs. Lestrade calmly got down on his haunches beside the body, trying not to step in anything that may be considered evidence; after taking a second to recover from his shock, John did the same on the man's other side.

"What do you think?" Lestrade asked him after a few seconds of contemplation.

"They tied him up," John said. "They subdued him… hit him on the head or something… but they didn't just strangle him straight off the bat. They tied him up instead. They wanted to… talk to him, maybe? Nobody heard a struggle? No screaming?"

Lestrade shook his head. "We're doorknocking the neighbours now, but the one who found him said she and her husband were out at the cinema until eleven, and nobody's home on the other side." He looked around at the mess, then stood up.

"Okay," he said. "Stop me if I'm wrong, but it seems to me like Bartlett gets a visitor… someone he knows and trusts well enough to let them into the house after dark and make them a cuppa. How many people would you entertain while wearing pyjamas?"

"Not many," was the terse response.

"Exactly. So he's facing away from his killer, making two cups of tea." He stood at the counter where the kettle was housed. "Visitor clocks him on the back of the head while he's unawares, but it's not hard enough to knock him out completely. Bartlett turns and pitches the sugar and cups at the attacker to defend himself, but probably the first blow was hard enough to disorient him. Our killer grabs him by the hair, slams him face-first into the sink, and either knocks him out or damn near to it. Then they tie his wrists together and throw him on the floor before going through with the ligature. Nasty way to die."

"Yes," John agreed, weighing up the theory. "I suppose that's how you'd do it. If Tim was conscious, it would have been minutes on end of agony, at the very least."

"So we can pretty much agree that whoever killed him probably wanted to make him suffer. Crime of passion, not a hit." Lestrade paused thoughtfully, then looked up at John for a few seconds. "Do you think a woman could have done this?"

"Maybe." John didn't look particularly confident about it. "Though that dent in the sink… it's hard to imagine someone smaller than Bartlett being able to launch that kind of an attack, and he's a powerfully built man, so if it was a woman who did it…" he trailed off.

"Elderly man?"

John blinked. "You think La Tremoille…?"

"I've got to look at every angle," Lestrade said. "And you've got to admit he's got a motive. If Addie killed her husband because she wanted to run off with Tim instead, and the old man found out about it, he may have blamed Tim for it and wanted him dead."

John looked over the brittle corpse on the floor again. "I suppose," he said. "An elderly man is more likely than a woman. And anyway, Addie's been remanded for the whole time. She can't have done it." He paused. "Ralph Inglis? You said he was put out by Addie sleeping with Tim."

"Yeah, I think he's got an unrequited love problem, but that was no reason to hold him, so we let him go after our little chat this morning. And it definitely doesn't mean he slammed Tim so hard into the sink that he _broke_ it." Lestrade was still looking around, trying to gather his thoughts. "The forensics will be interesting."

"Sherlock's going to _love_ this," John agreed. "Let's just hope he doesn't go overboard and check himself out over it or something. That's all we need."

"Oh, God." Lestrade put his hand over his eyes for a second. "Forget Sherlock. Mycroft is going to be thrilled."

* * *

"So if you've even got a _key_ to the place, exactly what am I doing here?" John shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around nervously as Mycroft fiddled with the door lock of the Bartlett place. It was half-past ten that night; overcast and muggy, without the slightest hint of a breeze.

"I suspect Sherlock wants you to keep an eye on me," Mycroft said grimly.

"Well, let's face it. You haven't really given him a lot of reason to trust you," John commented, folding his arms.

"I've given him more reasons than you'll ever be privy to." Mycroft was still fumbling with the lock; the entire front walk was in heavy shadow. "Either way, let's get this over and done with as quickly and painlessly as possible." He nudged the door open and slipped inside the front hall. John followed, furtively locking the door behind him. Since Mycroft apparently had legitimate access to the crime scene, and any other crime scene he felt like entering, there was no need to sneak around in the dark. But before John could flick the light switch on, he felt Mycroft's cold, hard grip on his wrist.

"Upstairs," he hissed in his ear.

John stopped dead, listening. From the second floor, he could hear hesitant but definite sounds of human life. A rustling, and then what sounded like a drawer being furtively closed.

"Are you armed?" John breathed back.

"No."

"Call Lestrade." John reached for the Browning tucked into the back of his belt, comforted by the familiar grip and knowing it had been fully checked and loaded before he'd started out from home. "Stay here."

Drawing the gun and flicking the safety off, John climbed the staircase with no more sound or disturbance than if he'd been one of the shadows flickering across from the trees close to the hall windows. Once on the landing, there was no doubt at all as to where the disturbance was coming from; there was an open door at the end of the corridor, and amber light was spilling out from what John felt must have been a low-sitting bedside lamp. Shadows flickered across the light source. There was more shuffling; by this time John could also hear muffled, rapid breathing. He padded over to the doorway, pausing for a second before going in, gun raised.

"Dr. Inglis, is it?"

Ralph Inglis was standing by what seemed to be the master bed, an open bedside drawer in front of him. He startled violently at the strange voice and shrank back against the wall, fumbling at his sides with both hands for something to defend himself with. John, holding the gun level, shook his head.

"Don't even think about it," he said, moving around the bed to where he had a clear shot. "Keep your hands where I can see them, and you won't have to worry about me shooting you."

"Who the hell are you?" Inglis demanded. "What are you doing here?"

"I was about to ask you that," John replied. "I've been hoping we could talk. Need a hand looking for something?"

Inglis broke for the door, but John had been anticipating it. He dropped the gun and reached the doorway first, grabbing Inglis and pitching him face-first onto the floor in a hammerhold. Inglis yelped, and John tugged harder at his arm.

"Stay still," he said through gritted teeth. "Or I'll break your arm."

The man on the floor went limp; the only resistance was his breathing, hitched and hesitant.

"Why did you break in?"

Inglis was silent.

"You were looking for something," John persisted, tugging his arm again. "What?"

Again, the only sound that Inglis made was his breathing.

"The police are on their way, and I can keep you on the floor like this for hours if I have to," John told him, hoping that Mycroft didn't expect him to be a one-man law enforcement agency and had indeed called the Met from downstairs. "You can explain to _them_ what you're doing here. I'm making a citizen's arrest for housebreaking."


	16. Four Little Bottles

"Mycroft, are you absolutely sure that you want to be doing that just now?"

John, still on the floor beside the compliant Ralph Inglis, watched as Mycroft coolly made his way over to the bedside drawer and gingerly pulled it out further to examine it. He made absolutely no acknowledgement of Inglis at all, and was wrapped up in his own thoughts for a few seconds.

"Yes," he finally said, after such a long pause that John had almost forgotten the question. "I didn't go to the effort of getting clearance for this – not an easy thing to do if you're contravening Scotland Yard's orders – to be interrupted by a common housebreaker. And when I lent you that gun of mine, I thought you had better sense than to drop it on the ground." He clucked his tongue and picked up the forgotten pistol before John could venture a word. John was wearing gloves; Mycroft was not, and readily put his prints on the Browning.

It was a few dazed seconds before John realised what Mycroft was trying to do. And it was a week before he learned the whole truth: the Browning may never have been officially his, but it _had_ been officially the property of Mycroft Holmes since he'd registered it that way, the day after the slaying of the murderous cabbie.

Mycroft went back to the bed; he inspected the floor and under the mattress, then looked carefully at both bedside tables using a slide magnifying glass.

"Oh, you needn't wonder any longer what he was looking for," he remarked to John over his shoulder, much as if Inglis wasn't even there. "Dr. Inglis, while my personal experience of such matters may be limited, I believe that women only tend to keep love letters if they're in love with the man who sent them. Sadly for you, this is not the case."

"… Love letters…?" John glanced at Inglis, but the man was face-down and not a lot could be derived from the back of his head, unless one's surname happened to be Holmes.

"Perfectly obvious, John," was the smug answer.

"Oh, yes, obvious," John muttered under his breath.

"Timothy Bartlett is dead," Mycroft continued. "Adelaide Bartlett is not only in hospital, but she's in a high-security psychiatric unit, which is virtually impossible to escape from. And that leaves the family doctor as the prime suspect in Tim's murder. It would be very awkward and incriminating if the Met were to discover that he's been sending rather pathetic lovelorn letters to Mrs. Bartlett for some time now."

"You mean, as in letters-letters? Not texts or emails, or-"

"No. Quite clever, really. Emails and texts leave an electronic trail that is nearly impossible to delete… and of course, the first things the Met confiscated from this house were Addie's mobile phone and her laptop. But with a hand-delivered letter written on paper with ink, all one needs to do is burn it and it no longer exists. Especially when it's of no value to the recipient."

John glanced back down at Inglis.

"There are marks here on the bedside table of the bottle used to administer the poison," Mycroft continued, running one finger very carefully over the edges of the table-top. "A wide-bottomed bottle, stub, with a long and narrow neck, I believe."

"And what does that mean?"

"Rather a lot, but I have no inclination to share any more with Dr. Inglis."

* * *

Lestrade and such members of his team as he could gather at short notice took another twenty-five minutes to arrive. On hearing them in the downstairs hall, Mycroft paused in his perusal of the carpet under the bed and went out to the landing, inviting them to come up without fear. John still had his suspect on the floor; he waited until Donovan had her cuffs at ready before letting go and standing up.

"Dr Inglis," she said, "I am arresting you on charges of breaking and entering. You do not have to-"

"He pointed a _gun_ at me," Inglis wailed. "He tried to _shoot_ me!"

"Gun?" Donovan was looking around, anxious. "Who has it now?"

"I do," Mycroft said coolly, retrieving it from the inside of his jacket and handing it to Donovan by holding it barrel-down. "I gave it to John when we realised the house had been broken into, simply to protect himself. Nobody fired it. I suspect Dr. Inglis hasn't heard that there's no "trying" to shoot people where Dr. Watson is concerned."

"Don't start on me, Greg," John muttered through grit teeth before Lestrade had a chance to open his mouth. "Arrest me if you want to, but I'm in no mood for a bollocking, so-"

Lestrade folded his arms. "I was going to ask if you were okay, actually," he said.

"I'm fine." John paused. "So is Inglis, so if he says otherwise-"

"If he complains, we'll have him look at when we get him back to the station…" Lestrade watched impassively as Halloran helped Donovan haul the reluctant suspect out the door. He was not resisting, but he was not helping, either; he'd become a deadweight, so that between them the two officers were almost carrying him.

"So what happens now?" John asked.

"I need you and Mycroft to come with me and make a statement," Lestrade said. "But neither of you are under arrest… provided Mycroft can demonstrate that you were supposed to be here, 'cause I have no knowledge of it. It'd be nice if people told me these things."

* * *

"Mr. Holmes… wakey-wakey…"

 _Hospital,_ Sherlock reflected foggily as he struggled to open his eyes. _The only place on earth where they wake you up in order to give you a sleeping pill._

He sat up painfully, reflecting that the medicine cup that Rosa, the night-nurse, put into his right hand didn't strike him as a sedative. "What's this?" he slurred.

"Antibiotic," she responded, upbeat but in hushed tones.

He blinked, wondering if she was medicating the wrong patient. "I'm on an intravenous course-"

"Yes, we're easing you off that by upping oral doses and lowering the intravenous doses…"

"Was this explained to me?"

"Yes. This afternoon… Samantha says you did look a bit vague through it all."

 _Samantha_. The spotty, giggling second-shift nurse that Sherlock had wished more than once to end up at the bottom of a well. He remembered that she _had_ given him some sort of lecture that afternoon, but he'd been mentally going through Adelaide Bartlett's conflicting statements of her husband's murder at the time and not listening.

"Oh," he said.

"Cheer up, Mr. Holmes," Rosa urged him. "It's not horrible, and it just means you're closer to being able to leave this place. You want that, don't you?"

Sherlock tipped the thick, gluey liquid straight down his throat, but even so he shuddered and swallowed down a gag at the bitter, cloying taste. "It _is_ horrible," he commented, pulling a disgusted face.

"Oh, that's no good," she replied sympathetically, causing Sherlock to shudder for an entirely different reason. "Well, perhaps some ice cream would help take out the taste in your mouth?"

"It's eleven o'clock at night," he protested.

"I don't think there's any official time zones for eating ice cream, is there?"

Sherlock lay back on his pillows, wincing a little – even days later, he was still surprised at how much pain he was in, though John had told him ad nauseum that it was normal as long as it wasn't getting any worse. He took a deep breath.

"Would you like some?" she persisted. "Can't hurt, especially since we're trying to put more weight on you."

"Fine." He waved his hand. "Get it, then." He paused for a few seconds. "Please," he finally said.

* * *

"Whoa, wait, stop, you've lost me."

Ralph Inglis was being remanded in a holding cell overnight while the Met prepared for an all-nighter of collaborating evidence against him for anything they could. Lestrade had taken Mycroft and John into his office for a condensed version of what had happened at the Bartlett house, but much to Mycroft's irritation, he didn't seem to be following. "Hang on," he said. "So what are you saying about the bottles?"

Mycroft sighed heavily. "The furniture in the bedroom is made of balsa wood," he said slowly, in the tones of one humouring an idiot. "Bedside tables, dressing table, chest of drawers, the bed – all of it."

"And?"

"And balsa wood, while categorised as a hardwood, is remarkably soft and pliable. Any glass bottle placed on it would leave little scratches in its wake- perhaps not visible to the human eye, but visible under magnification and certainly visible under a microscope."

Lestrade nodded his head in comprehension. "And you found none of those marks."

"No. Of course, I only had a magnifying glass with me, but if forensics were to look at it-"

"So what's that mean?"

Mycroft sighed again. "Think on this, Lestrade," he said. "Addie is trying to imply that while she was asleep, Bartlett retrieved the four bottles of chloroform, combined them into a larger, narrow-necked bottle, and drank it off – all without waking her. He was in bed when he died, which means-"

"He was in bed when he drank it," John finished for him.

"Precisely. The effects of the chloroform would have been immediate and violent, and nobody in their right mind would have the ability or the inclination to calmly climb back into bed after taking something like that. The larger bottle stood on the bedside table. There are clear signs. So if _he_ poured four bottles of chloroform into the larger one while sitting in bed, where in heaven's name did he put the little bottles? On the carpet? That would be an extremely odd thing to do, given that there was a perfectly good bedside table at his disposal only inches away."

Lestrade frowned. "So the four little bottles…"

"Were never in the bedroom at any point. They were combined into one bottle in another room, and it was the larger bottle and no other that was put on the bedside table. Where were the smaller bottles when the first responders arrived?"

"Addie," Lestrade groaned. "She was drunk, remember? Answered the door with them in her hands. Dear God." He was silent for a few seconds. "Okay," he finally said. "But there's not enough evidence against Inglis to press charges of murder, and we have to check his whereabouts on the night Edwin was killed, too. That's going to take time. And I'm going to need to speak with Home Office to get his passport revoked and his travel privileges restricted."

"I think I can take care of that," Mycroft commented. Lestrade couldn't avoid snorting.

"Of course," he said, a little acidly. "Do whatever it is you do. But if we can't get evidence that Inglis murdered Tim Bartlett and have to release him, we're going to need to keep him close. John, 'you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," John said, with just a hint of offence. "He didn't touch me. Which I'm sure his lawyer is going to hear all about."

"Don't worry about that for now. Go home and get some sleep; we'll pick this back up in the morning."

* * *

From the end of the street, John noted that Molly had left the front porch light on for him; this wasn't much of a surprise, since he'd phoned her from the station and told her he might be in late.

He glanced at his watch; it was half past midnight, and Molly was awake. On closer inspection he'd seen that the house was lit up like a Christmas tree; bedroom, bathroom, front hall. The nursery was toward the rear of the house, but John, unlocking the door and letting himself in, had no doubts that _that_ light was on, too. Seconds later, he heard the familiar, pitiful wails of his extremely unhappy progeny upstairs.

"Molly…?" he called hesitantly in the general direction of the stairs.

Before he could reach them, though, Molly emerged from the direction of the living room, with Toby captive in her arms. She was dishevelled and in her nightie, and John did a double-take. Charlie was definitely upstairs, and Molly was not, and -

"John…"

Molly spoke hoarsely, in tones so low he barely heard her; she hid her wet face in Toby's thick mottled fur. John stopped short in the hall doorway, heart in his throat.

"Oh my God, what's wrong?" he demanded. "Are you all right? Is Charlie-"

"Could you…" she hiccupped and wiped her flushed cheek with the heel of her hand. "C-could you… please change her for me…?"

He looked at her blankly for a few seconds.

"Sure," he said slowly, suspecting this had subtext that he was missing. "But what's-"

"She… she doesn't want me to do it… because she doesn't _like_ me…"

"Oh, _Molly."_ He crossed the hall to her. "What the hell…? No. _No_ …" He drew her close, ignoring Toby between them, as she started crying with renewed energy. Upstairs, Charlie was still screaming, but that wasn't anything new. This was.

"Calm down," he told her after a few seconds. "Calm down, you're going to make yourself sick."

"But she… she doesn't… won't smile… cries when… when I…"

"Nope, don't start telling yourself things like that." He rubbed her shoulder, then held her at arm's length and tilted her chin up with his hand. "Listen… listen. Calm down." He kissed her forehead briefly, noting how hot it was. "Hold Toby a bit more. I want you to put the kettle on while I'm upstairs, and then we're going to talk."

She nodded, wiping her eyes and taking Toby to the kitchen; John waited until he heard her put the kettle on before he went up stairs and changed Charlie's wet nappy. Laying her back in her crib, he patted her with one hand and pulled out his mobile phone on the other. After four rings, Melissa sleepily answered the call.

"John," she muttered. "Greg doesn't appear to be here, so I think he's still at work…"

"I know," he said, clearing his throat. "Listen, um, I need some help from you…"

"From me?" her voice suddenly gained clarity; she'd obviously just registered the tension in John's voice and Charlie's wailing. "Is Charlie all right?"

"I think she's just fussing. It's not her. Mel, I know you're not a cognitive therapist, but you're the best I can do at this hour. Could you come over, please?"


	17. Trust

"Go upstairs?" John echoed in disbelief.

Melissa nodded. She'd just arrived at the house, hastily dressed; John reflected that he'd never seen her in a t-shirt and track pants before. She wasn't even wearing makeup. He mentally added Melissa to his list of people he could rely on in a crisis.

"You know the law," she said. "I can't ask you for private information about _your_ patients, and without their permission, I can't tell you about mine."

"How am I supposed to help her if-"

"I'll share with you anything she gives permission for, and we're going to sit down and all three of us talk. But first, I need to talk to her without you. Go upstairs."

Melissa was intractable. John went up, pausing by the nursery door on his way down the hall. From below, he could hear both Melissa and Molly talking in low voices; he had a sudden ache of exclusion, as if this was Secret Women's Business that he had no part of or right to.

Casper was brushing against his legs. He took him into the bedroom and sat on the bed waiting for nearly fifteen minutes, until he heard Melissa climbing the stairs and walking along the hall. She knocked on the door and opened it when invited to.

"Okay, come down," she said gently. "We'll talk. She's okay."

Downstairs, Molly was nursing a second cup of tea in both hands; she'd stopped crying, John noted with gratitude, though she still looked dishevelled and soggy. "Is Charlie all right?" was the first thing out of her mouth.

"She's fast asleep." John sat down in the armchair and waited for Melissa to begin. He knew how this went. This was like therapy… this _was_ therapy, really. Free therapy in the middle of the night. He owed Melissa one.

"Molly," Melissa said, "it seems to me that a lot of these difficulties have arisen because both you and John find it difficult to really communicate with one another when there's something wrong. It's like you're both a bit scared of upsetting the other, but then you end up more upset when these things don't get said at all, right?"

Molly nodded, and Melissa looked at John for a brief second.

"So do you want to go ahead and talk now?" she continued. "I'll leave you to it if you don't want me to overhear."

"I…"

"Say what you really think, Molly... not what you think I want to hear."

Molly was silent for a few seconds, grappling with this. She tucked one straggling lock of hair behind her ear."Maybe… maybe if we talked about this on our own for a little bit?" she ventured timidly. "Maybe… maybe you could make some more tea or play with Casper, or…?"

"That's better." Melissa rose and went into the kitchen. Molly looked awkwardly across at her husband for a few seconds, obviously wondering how on earth to begin.

"I'm sorry," she finally blurted out, then checked herself. "No. I mean, I… I'm sorry that you're hurt," she said. "But I… Mel says I need to tell you honestly…"

John swallowed down on what felt like a boulder in his throat. He felt the warm spread of anxiety in his chest as he awaited it, or something like it: _John, I don't want to be married to you anymore._

"I want to go back to work," she said instead. Once the dreaded sentence was out, she took a deep, shuddering breath. "I… I don't think I'm the sort of person who likes to just stay at home with the baby all day..."

John nodded, checking that her sentence was finished before clearing his throat. He was trying not to show how relieved he was that his worst fears hadn't eventuated. "Okay," he said. "You know, I agree with you. That night we were at the morgue was the most cheerful I think I've seen you since Charlie was born. You were having a great time."

"But it's so wrong-"

"Why?"

Molly paused, trying to sort her thoughts out. "Because… I don't know why," she said. "But it doesn't matter, does it? Because I don't want to leave Charlie in care."

John nodded again. This was no surprise. Molly had already stated her decision not to leave her child in the care of a stranger until she was at least six months old. She'd said so the same week they'd discovered she was pregnant. "Okay," he said. "But Lolly, I think you might be missing the obvious.  What if you went back to work, and I didn't?"

Molly's mouth dropped open and then, to John's surprise, she started softly crying again. "Oh, no," she said, putting her hand to her mouth. "John, _no_ , you've been wanting to get back to work for _months_. And… to be at home all day with Charlie…"

"You never know, I might like it." John shrugged and took a deep breath. "Listen," he said. "I had a talk about this with… well, with a lot of people, actually. But it was Greg who said that I can't do everything for everyone. He said something would have to give, and he was right. And… I suppose if I were a more responsible person, it would be Sherlock who'd have to give."

"No," she said. "He's your friend. Our friend. He's important to you, and he's important to me."

"Yes." He squeezed her hand. "So there it is. You and Charlie need me. Sherlock needs me… sometimes. Harry needs me. I can't take Sherlock out of my life, any more than I could take you or Charlie or Harry out of it."

"But…"

"I don't _need_ to work. We'll do okay on one income for a bit. We've done okay so far. Charlie might not get that pony for her first birthday, but she'll probably have happier parents."

"But you'll get bored…"

"I might," he conceded. "But you're already bored, and I _might_ get bored. I might not. Why don't we try it and see?"

* * *

At half-past twelve the following day, John arrived back at the hospital with Charlie in his arms and a floral pink nappy bag slung over one shoulder; Molly was on a much-needed lunch date with Melissa. As he entered the ward, he was all too acutely aware that almost every woman who saw him was casting him looks of approval for his choice of feminine company. At least, he reflected, they weren't looks of pity. He made his way down the corridor to Sherlock's room, finding a stout nurse with the medications trolley near the doorway.

"Liz," he said cheerfully. "What's all this about?"

Liz Elerman had been a nurse at Hammersmith for part of the time that John had worked there; the two were on friendly terms, even if they had never known each other particularly well.

"Switching to oral amoxicillin doses," she explained, briefly checking the time on the watch pinned to her uniform. "At the moment he's still got the drip, but we're weaning him off that."

"Already?"

"Dr. Grantham said she's concerned about him building up a resistance. We're close monitoring the infection; if it stops responding to the oral doses, we'll go back to the IV… and aww, who's this?" She was smiling at Charlie, who was placidly nestled up against John's shoulder.

"This is my daughter. Charlie," he said. "Before you ask, because everyone does, she's eight weeks old tomorrow."

"Awww, she's lovely. Anyway." Liz stopped cooing and made quite a different face. "Rosa's notes seem to indicate Sherlock didn't much like last night's medicine."

"Great." It was John's turn to make a face. Charlie's bag, containing every conceivable thing a baby could ever want, was slipping down his shoulder. He shrugged it up awkwardly. "I'll spare you the abuse and give it to him… come on, Liz. You know I'm authorised to give someone a medicine cup of amox. Haven't been struck off the register lately. And I won't put arsenic in it somewhere between here and his bed. Promise."

Liz didn't seem particularly miffed about missing out on giving Sherlock his medication; John took the medicine cup in his free hand and went into the room. He found Sherlock, looking pale and tragic, picking through what John felt was easily the most unappetising lunch he'd ever seen.

"Afternoon," John said. "Don't scowl at her. It's a long story."

"I wasn't scowling," Sherlock protested, dropping his spoon as if grateful for the interruption. He may not have been scowling at Charlie, but he was certainly frowning at her and looked confused. "Why is she looking at me like that?" he wanted to know.

John shifted Charlie slightly, looking at her face. "She's smiling at you, Sherlock."

"No she's not… why is she?"

"I don't know. Maybe she likes to see you." John put the medicine cup on the table and sat down in the nearest chair. "Listen," he began. "I can't stay long today, but we need to talk -"

"You… have a child, John."

There was no mockery or sarcasm or dudgeon in Sherlock's voice. Only a sense of wonder. John blinked.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "Sherlock, I've had a child for two months now."

"You're someone's _father."_

"Yep."

Sherlock was still looking at Charlie; he paused for a second or two, then shook his head. "John, I've decided you're involving yourself entirely too much with this case, and with me. Lestrade and Mycroft are also assisting me, so there's no need for you to-"

John frowned. "Did Mel-?"

"And I've spoken with Mycroft," Sherlock continued over the top of him. "We've agreed that after I'm released from here it would be best for all concerned if I spent a week out at Linwood, since he so stubbornly refuses to stay at Baker Street."

John paused for a few seconds, looking at him. "Thank you," he finally said.

"What for?"

"You know what for. I don't want to have another touchy-feely conversation today if I can avoid one."

"I-"

"Nope, not interested. Here, shut up and take your medicine." He held the medicine cup out to Sherlock, who downed it quickly and put the empty cup back down on the table with a grimace.

"I'm taking Mycroft's money, by the way," he continued. Charlie had fallen asleep against his shoulder, and he patted her back absently as he spoke. "Yeah, you heard about that, I'm not stupid, you know. I'll be in Mycroft's debt, but-"

"No one's in Mycroft's debt." Sherlock spooned what looked like lumpy pumpkin soup into his mouth and winced again. "And no one ever will be. He never gives away a penny that he expects to see again…"

He put the spoon down and trailed off, looking at the now-empty medicine cup in his hand as if it were the first time he was seeing it.

"Sherlock…?"

"What did I just take?"

"Liquid amoxicillin. Same as you had last night, or so Liz tells me."

"John, I just drank that because you told me to," Sherlock said. "I didn't ask what it was. You didn't tell me. It could have been _anything_..."

"It wasn't 'anything.'" John set his jaw, genuinely offended. "I would never-"

"No, I know _you_ would never do anything to harm me," Sherlock said witheringly. "I trust you, and that's why I drank it. But what if I was Edwin Bartlett, John? What if I was a hypochondriac who _loved_ to take medicines of all kinds? What if I had a longsuffering, beautiful, sexually frustrated wife who I trusted as a nursemaid-?"

John stared at him. "Oh, God," he said. "Are you saying…"

"That's how Addie Bartlett did it, John. She didn't. _Edwin_ did. Half-asleep and probably suffering from a pounding headache, he drank a bottle of chloroform because Addie told him it was _medicine!"_

"The… the narrow-necked bottle," John blurted out. "He wouldn't have been able to smell it if he just chucked it down… wouldn't have realised what it was until it was too late. And the water-"

"Was a chaser from when he swallowed the chloroform, _not the aspirin._ That's why the chemical burns in his oesophagus and mouth were so mild."

"But Addie was remanded when Tim-"

"Yes, but _Ralph Inglis_ wasn't remanded when Tim Bartlett was murdered," Sherlock pointed out. "There were no other serious suspects for Tim Bartlett's murder, and that was his mistake. Addie asked him to procure the chloroform, and he did – because she told him she was going to kill _Tim_ with it."

"Tim? Why would she-"

"No doubt she told Inglis the reason she'd never sleep with him was because of Tim's relationship with her. She must have also told him some nonsense about Tim being controlling, or having some sort of a hold on her that prevented her leaving him. So she and Inglis arrange what Inglis thinks will be Tim Bartlett's murder. Instead, she kills _Edwin_ because she's in love with _Tim,_ not with Inglis."

"So... so that's what the meltdown was for when Tim was murdered… it was Tim she was in love with the whole time…" John shifted Charlie in his arms, wondering vaguely if overhearing any of this was going to do her any harm. "Wait," he said. "So why didn't Inglis just out her as the killer when it was Edwin who was poisoned?"

"Because he loves her; the idiot."

"So since he still wanted him dead, he went out to murder Tim on his own."

"Oh yes, that was definitely pre-meditated. Nobody brings a wire ligature to a crime scene unless they're intending to use it. But Lestrade said that the evidence suggests Tim was calmly making him a cup of tea when he was attacked, so they weren't fighting at the time. What was it that Tim told us about Ralph Inglis? Something about him being a wimp, a wet blanket sort. He never saw him as a threat, and let him right into the house. But a man like Inglis doesn't talk things out. He's silent until he explodes in a rage like he did at Tim that night."

"But what provoked it? It was well after Edwin was dead, and Inglis knew she'd been sleeping with Tim for ages."

"Yes, but he didn't know that Addie was remanded in a psychiatric unit. It was _then_ that he lashed out at Tim. In his mind, it was Tim's fault that Addie is looking at the possibility either of life in prison, or sectioning at her Majesty's pleasure." Sherlock reached out for his phone, wincing as his reach fell short of the far side of the bedside table.

"Here. Use mine." John pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it out to him. Sherlock snatched it without thanks and started navigating the address book.

"We need to hurry," he muttered, putting the phone to his ear. "Inglis was released on bail an hour ago and ordered not to leave London. Lestrade needs to go to his house and rearrest him _now."_


	18. Adjusted Relationships

Ralph Inglis' silver sedan was in the front drive of his house in Wembley, though several minutes of knocking on the front door hadn't produced a response. Lestrade stood on the doorstep, pondering what to do next. It had taken him four hours to procure warrants to arrest Ralph Inglis for murder and search his house and car. In the meantime, the man might have…

"Hope he hasn't flown the coop, sir," Dyer commented helpfully. Lestrade scowled. In his experience, it was entirely likely that Inglis was halfway to Calais by now.

"He's got a laboratory around the back, apparently," he said. "He might be out there. Come on."

Lestrade led the way down the narrow gap between Inglis' house and the block of flats beside, nudging past the recycling bin and negotiating a rusty side gate before he and his team found their way into the back garden. Donovan and Thompson went to the back door and knocked on it; Lestrade went over to the small stand-alone shed nestled at the far end of the overgrown garden. He glanced at the small, square-paned windows lining either side. Torn plastic shades. They were all down.

For a moment the only sounds in the garden were the rustling of leaves in the wind and Donovan still knocking on the back door. It was only a matter of moments before she was going to ask Lestrade if she and Thompson should try to break in. Lestrade reached out and turned the handle of the laboratory door. It twisted the whole way down, as if it were unlocked; but as he pushed it in, it met with resistance. He peered through the half-inch gap into the laboratory, but all that could be seen was sooty blackness.

He could smell something, though. He was too well-acquainted with that sour stench to not recognise it immediately. Just then, Donovan wandered over.

"Sir, should we-"

"Shhh!" he hissed at her, holding his hand up. For a few seconds they listened in silence. Beyond the purr of the wind in the trees above, there was another sound from behind the door; a sort of rough gurgle.

"Shit." Lestrade pushed harder at the door, but it refused to give; he stepped backwards, looking at the side windows to the laboratory and then turning to Donovan.

"Could you get in that window?"

She sized it up for half a second. "I think so, sir."

"Right, guys, give her a hand with it. Don't break the glass unless you have to. The last thing we need is someone bleeding all over the place."

The first window on the northern side was unlocked, and after Halloran had shoved it for a few seconds it gave and the sill lifted without much resistance. With a bit of help from Halloran and Patel, Donovan neatly climbed in feet-first; Lestrade, still at the door, heard her exclaim. "Suspect's down, sir!"

Lestrade turned to ask Dyer to call an ambulance; the young DC was already on his radio. "What's wrong with him?" he asked her through the shut door.

"Overdose… there's some glass container in his hand..." Donovan's voice was muffled by what Lestrade imagined to be her sleeve.

"Right, guys, go around to the other side… we need every window open…" Lestrade was shoving open the window next to the one Donovan had climbed in, pitching forward slightly as it abruptly gave way and slid up. He could smell it more strongly now – the smell of damp earth, bitter chemicals and sour vomit. Looking in, he could see Donovan crouched beside the prone form of Ralph Inglis. She was breathing into her sleeve and taking his pulse with her other hand.

"He's alive."

"Dyer's calling for backup. Listen, we've got to get in, so can you move him away from the door without making him worse?"

Donovan looked between the door and the man on the floor, sizing him up. Lestrade realised, perhaps before Donovan herself did, that Ralph Inglis, while not a noticeably large man, would probably be difficult for a small woman to drag across the floor without help. Donovan had a habit of overestimating her own strength in many ways.

"Jones, get in there and help her," he barked, sizing up the other female officer on site and figuring she would probably have no more difficulty climbing in than Donovan had. "Please!"

As he helped get Lauren Jones through the window, he noticed that there was a rectangular square of white paper on the laboratory floor near one of Donovan's shoes. It was only after the ambulance had arrived and whisked off his comatose suspect that Lestrade investigated what it proclaimed in Inglis's doctor's scrawl.

_I am guilty._

* * *

"You do realise," Mycroft commented, "that deliberately impeding the progress of an investigation is a crime in this country."

Mycroft had quite easily deduced that this was going to be a rather belligerent confrontation- at least on the part of La Tremoille. Mycroft himself took pride in the fact that he rarely showed outward anger to anyone – rarely showed any unhelpful emotion, as a matter of fact. In light of the nature of their meeting, he had invited La Tremoille to his office, rather than to Linwood or – God forbid – the Diogenes Club again. La Tremoille had been awkwardly ensconced in the leather-bound chair opposite, but he hadn't been in it for long and was now pacing up and down the room as Mycroft calmly looked on from behind his desk.

At these words, though, he'd stopped.

"Impeding…?"

"You're aware of what that word means in English," Mycroft told him calmly, comfortable with the sturdy oak desk between them and knowing there was plenty of witnesses just down the hall if La Tremoille wanted to continue these theatrics. "There are clear signs when a man genuinely does not comprehend and when he is obfuscating. You were obliged at all times to reveal anything you felt might have been important to this investigation. And knowledge that Adelaide was not just in a sexual relationship with her brother-in-law, but was in love with him and wished to leave Edwin to marry him, may well have solved this case a lot quicker – and saved Timothy Bartlett's life."

"I fail to see why Timothy Bartlett's life was very worth saving," the older man growled.

"How very Puritan of you, monsieur," Mycroft remarked, fishing around in his desk drawer for a cigarette. Theoretically, the entire building was non-smoking. In practice, not a soul had so far been prepared to tell Mycroft Holmes that he couldn't smoke in his own office. He sparked up and took a long drag before continuing his point. "Adultery, while generally looked down upon by most, doesn't carry the death penalty in this country," he said. "If it did, it would be very bad news for Adelaide, especially when one considers that she was married, and Tim Bartlett was not."

There was a shamed silence.

"What will happen to her?" La Tremoille asked wretchedly. Mycroft shrugged.

"Given her state, we can make an argument for her being mentally unfit to plead," he said. "Or rather, your legal counsel can do so. I'm not a lawyer."

"And Dr. Inglis?"

"I last received word from the hospital an hour ago." Mycroft sipped at the glass of water on his desk. "Aconitum poisoning, as we all suspected. He had a number of different extracts in his laboratory from earlier experiments." He shrugged. "He's conscious and being monitored closely. Hardly comfortable, but I've been assured that he'll survive to be tried for his role in this sordid business."

La Tremoille was silent for a few seconds. "Then let justice be done," he said slowly. "On Dr. Inglis, and on my poor child." He looked across the desk at Mycroft. "That surprises you," he said.

"What does?"

"That I call her my child. That I think of her as mine."

It was Mycroft's turn to ponder this. "No," he finally said, taking another drag on his cigarette. "No, I think that's one of the most reasonable things you've said in a week."

* * *

"Saturday week." John sat down on the sofa next to Molly, who was snuggling Charlie up against her neck. "Ten o'clock… if that's okay by you."

Molly nodded.

"Her name's Lydia Karpov… seemed nice enough when I spoke to her, and she said you're more than welcome to call for a chat before we go… and she wants us to bring Charlie for the first visit."

"Really?" Molly looked at him in surprise. He shrugged.

"I guess she wants to meet the little troublemaker before trying to help out with the trouble," he said. "Got four kids of her own, so I guess she'd know what she was talking about… see look, there. You can't tell me that that's not a smile. At _you_."

It was Molly's turn to smile ruefully. "Chrissy said that she might have been picking up that I was stressed and that's why she wouldn't smile for me," she admitted.

"You know how I feel about Chrissy, but do you think she might've been right on that one?"

"Yeah."

There was a short, companionable silence; John kissed Molly's neck thoughtfully. "Talked to work yet?" he asked in upbeat tones.

Molly nodded, nestling into him a little. "They say I can start again next month," she said, sounding pleased. "They've put me on a job-share with Sharon Knowles. Monday and Tuesday of one week, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday of the next." She smiled a little. "I think someone's been talking. Sean told me if I ever need care for Charlie, I should ask for help instead of bringing her to the morgue."

They both laughed a little shamefacedly.

"I said nothing," John said. "Absolutely wasn't me, I promise." He paused thoughtfully for a few seconds. Then, in different tones, he said, "We'll get through this, Lolly."

"Yes."

"Everyone said it was going to be harder than we thought," he said. "We can't say we weren't warned, I guess."

"I didn't think other people were going to make it so hard," Molly said in a small voice. "Without even meaning to be… I mean, there's lots of people who are trying to help us, but they… um…" she trailed off. John nodded.

"I was telling Harry about that," he said. "You know I think even less about Harry's opinion than Chrissy's, but I think she was on the money with what she said."

Molly turned. "Oh?"

"Well, I was talking about people thinking you've got me on a leash, you know. Never mind that I offered. Apparently it's just not done that I'd want to stay home and you'd want to go back to work. I should be off… spear-hunting sabre-toothed tigers, or something. I actually think Mike still assumes I was kidding about staying home."

"What'd Harry say about all that?" Molly was smiling, already anticipating something delightfully caustic.

"She told me that if we were doing this because we agreed that it's the best thing for Charlie and for each other, then we can safely tell people like Brooke Cade to fuck off with their stupid opinions."

Molly gave a little squeal of laughter, trying to cover Charlie's ears far too late. "John," she scolded. "She'll have worse language than Harry before she even goes to _school_."

"Oh, well, you _asked_ what she said,' he protested with a smile. "Anyway, if she doesn't pick it up from me, she'll probably pick it up from Harry. And there are worse things in the world than swearing a bit." He kissed Molly's shoulder; Charlie gave a placid little gurgle and curled her hands up.

"Who's our gorgeous girl, then?" Molly asked her softly, being rewarded with a gummy smile as Charlie's answer.

"Who's not going to be so very gorgeous while she's screaming at two o'clock tomorrow morning?" John asked wryly.

"Oh, don't think about that," Molly said. "Enjoy her while she's… quiet…?"

For a minute or two, all three of them were quiet.

"Hey, Lolly," John said at length. "You're… going to tell me when you're stressed out from now on, right?"

"Yes."

"'Cause it's going to happen. All this is going to help, but... it won't magically solve everything, right?"

"Right."

"And I don't know if you've noticed, I'm not good at picking this stuff up on my own."

"I noticed."

"Do you forgive me?"

" _John_."

"Is that a yes?"

For the next couple of minutes, both of them quite forgot that their daughter was even there.


	19. Tea

"Leave me," Sherlock grouched as he carefully lowered himself onto the plush silk-covered sitting-room sofa at Linwood. "I can sit down and get up without help, for pity's sake."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows for a second. Although he hadn't made any overt moves to physically assist Sherlock into the house and onto the sofa, he'd kept a very close eye on the process. "Really?" he said. "Because the way you just moved your right leg seems to indicate soft tissue damage in your knee, probably from a fall yesterday, no doubt due to overestimating your own recovery process. Am I correct?"

"When are you not?" Sherlock muttered, exhaling.

"Dizzy spell?"

"Overbalanced," was the miffed reply. Mycroft knew that there was a large chance that this was, in fact, a euphemism for 'tripped.' Sherlock, wincing a little, raised his legs onto the sofa, and Mycroft clucked his tongue.

"Sherlock, you have never, _ever_ been permitted to put your feet on the sofa while wearing shoes," he scolded. "If this wasn't acceptable when you were four, what makes you think it's acceptable now?"

"I'd supposed you were less needlessly fastidious than Mummy," Sherlock mumbled as Mycroft unlaced his shoes and took them off for him, placing them in a neat pair beside the sofa leg. "And since you're determined to hover over me as if I'm some sort of invalid, I'd be grateful for tea."

Mycroft sighed. "This may come as a complete surprise to you," he said, "but the purpose of my taking an extremely inconvenient two-week hiatus from what I can assure you was a _very_ important period at the office was not, in fact, to provide you with a constant supply of hot tea."

"In that case, I'll get my own." Sherlock started to rise again, grimacing; Mycroft honestly could not tell if he was exaggerating or genuinely in pain. He rolled his eyes.

"Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock, you needn't look so put-upon."

"What?" Sherlock protested. "Either I have to get up and make it myself or I have to go without for two weeks. Which do you prefer?"

"I'm certain you can wait another five minutes without dying of dehydration. Otherwise, you might find yourself in danger from quite another quarter. There have been quite enough murders recently without adding your own to the list," Mycroft said darkly.

Sherlock smirked at the empty threat.

"And speaking of which, here's your cheque." Mycroft pulled the small rectangle of white paper out of his breast-pocket and held it out to him.

"My what?" Sherlock took it in his hand and stared at it for a few seconds in silence. "Well, that's generous of La Tremoille," he said at last. "I certainly wasn't expecting a financial bonus. Considering it's possible that Adelaide Bartlett is going to spend the rest of her life in prison."

"I doubt it. She's clearly not sane."

In the week since the case had been cracked open, Adelaide's mental state had deteriorated further; the last he'd heard, she had been heavily medicated. "I suspect that she's had manifest mental health issues for a long time, and her husband's eccentricities may have distracted other people from noticing her own. Anyhow, La Tremoille always insisted you'd be paid for the quality of your investigative work, not the decision of the jury. It seems that for all his flaws, he's a man of his word."

"In that case, I can't possibly accept it." Sherlock held it back out to him between two fingers. "You know I don't work for money. And I certainly don't accept payment for work not delivered. You can split it between yourself, John and Lestrade. Or you can tear it up, for all I care."

He watched in some amusement as Mycroft folded the cheque and put it back in his pocket. Mycroft wasn't greedy, but he wasn't going to throw away a cheque with five figures on it, either.

"For God's sake, Mycroft," he said petulantly. "If you're not going to hurry up with the tea, get Stephen to do it. It's clear from the state of this room alone that he's living here on at _least_ a part time basis. I've no doubt he's skulking around the back kitchen somewhere, pretending to not exist. Absurd. If John were looking after me I wouldn't even have to _ask_ , let alone twice..."

Mycroft sighed heavily. "It may surprise you to learn that Stephen is not currently here. I'll go for it myself," he said longsufferingly. "You're maddening. As for John, I'm sure I don't know how on earth he's _tolerated_ you all this time."

Sherlock did not reply in words, but the answer hovered between them all the same: _neither do I._


End file.
